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VIRGIL  I.  HIXSON 
No. 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2010  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


http://www.archive.org/details/shadowofashlydyaOOwood 


THE 


SHADOW  OF  ASHLYDYAT. 


BY 


MRS.    HENRY    WOOD. 

AUTHOR      OF      "SQUIRE     TREVLYN'S      HEIR,"      "THE      CASTLE'S     HEIR," 
•'verner's    PRIDE,"     "THE     CHANNINGS,"    "THE    earl's    HEIRS," 

"a  life's  secret,"  "the   foggy    night   at    offord," 

"east  lynne,"  "the  "mystery,"  "the  lost  bank 

note,"  "the   runaway  match,"  etc. 


Printed  from  'the  author's  Manuscript  and  advance  Proof-sheets,  pur- 
chased by  us  from  Mrs.  Henry  "Wood,  and  issued   here  in 
advance  of  the  publication  of  the  work  in  Europe. 


JMjilabelplpa: 

T.    B.    PETERSON    &    BROTHERS; 

306    CHESTNUT    STREET. 


Entered,  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863,  by 

T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the  Eastern 

District  of  Pennsylvania. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I.— The  Meet  of  the  Hounds 23 

II— Lady  Godolphin's  Folly 30 

III.— The  Dark  Plain  in  the  Moonlight 37 

IV.— All-Souls'  Rectory 42 

Y. — Thomas  Godolphin's  Love 50 

VI.— Charlotte  Pain 57 

VII. — Broomhead 60 

VIII.— A  Snake  in  the  Grass 67 

IX.— Mr.  Sandy's  "Trade" 74 

X.— The  Shadow 79 

XL — A  Telegraphic  Dispatch 86 

XII.— Dead 92 

XIII. — Unavailing  Regrets 98 

XIV.—  Dust  to  Dust 104 

XV.— A  Midnight  Walk 110 

XVI. — The  last  Journey 115 

XVIL— A  Row  on  the  Water 123 

XVIII. — Straw  in  the  Streets 130 

XLX.^-One  Stick  Discarded 134 

XX. — An  Invitation  to  All-Souls'  Rectory 141 

XXI. — A  Revelation  to  All-Souls'  Rector 146 

XXII. — Charlotte's  Bargain 153 

XXIII. — Dangerous  Amusement 161 

XXIY— Home 167 

XXV.— Sixty  Pounds  to  Old  Jekyl 170 

XXVL— Why  did  it  Anger  him  ? 177 

19 


20  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER 

XXVII.— Cecil's  Romance 181 

XXVIIL— Charlotte  Pain's  "Turn  Oat" 186 

XXIX. — A  Revelation  in  the  Ash-tree  Walk 191 

XXX— Mr.  Verrall's  Chambers 201 

XXXI.— Done  1  Beyond  Recall 205 

XXXII.— The  Tradition  of  the  Dark  Plain 212 

XXXIII.— The  Dead  Alive  Again 221 

XXXIV.— A  Welcome  Home 224 

XXXV— Those  Bonds  Again! 230 

XXXVI.—"  I  see  it :  But  I  cannot  Explain  it." 236 

XXXVIL— The  Loss  Proclaimed 242 

XXXVIIL— A  Red-letter  Day  for  Mrs.  Bond 247 

XXXIX.— Isaac  Hastings  Turns  to  Thinking 256 

XL.— A  Nightmare  for  the  Rector  of  All-Souls' 260 

XLL— Mr.  Layton  "Looked  Up." 265 

XLIL— Gone! 275 

XLIII. — Murmurs  and  Curious  Doubts :....  278 

XLIV.— Bobbing  Joan 285 

XLV.— Mrs.  Bond's  Visit 292 

XLVL— A  Dread  Fear 295 

XL VII.— Company  to  Breakfast 301 

XLVIIL— Bearing  the  Brunt 307 

XLIX.— A  Fiery  Trial 312 

L.— "She's  as  Fine  as  a  Queen."...  320 

LI. — Margery's  Tongue  let  Loose 326 

LII. — Another  Nail  in  the  Coffin  of  Thomas  Godolphin 332 

LIIL— A  Visit  of  Pain 338 

LIV.— A  Show  in  the  Streets  of  Prior's  Ash 342 

LV. — Unavailing  Regrets 346 

LVI. — My  Lady  Washes  her  Hands 351 

LVIL— A  Broken  Idol 355 

LVIIL— Mrs.  Pain  Taking  Leave 360 

LIX. — Mr.  Reginald  makes  a  Morning  Call 365 

LX— A  Shadow  of  the  Future 372 

LXI. — Nearer  and  Nearer  for  Thomas  Godolphin 375 

LXIL— A  Peaceful  Hour  in  the  Porch  of  Ashlydyat 379 

LXIIL— For  the  Last  Time  :  Very  Faint 384 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS.  21 

CHAPTER 

LXIV. — The  Bell  that  Rang  out  on  the  Evening  Air 38T 

LXV.— The  Shutters  Closed  at  Prior's  Ash 393 

LXVI. — Caught  by  Mr.  Snow 396 

LXVII. — A  Bane,  as  was  Predicted  Years  Before 400 

LXVIII. — Commotion  at  Ashlydyat 40? 

LXIX—  News  for  All-Souls'  Rectory 414 

LXX. — A  Crowd  of  Memories 419 

LXXI. — Grace  Akeman's  Repentance 426 

LXXIL— The  Last 431 

LXXIII.— Over  the  Dead 435 

LXXIY.— A  Sad  Parting 441 

LXXV.— A  Safe  Visit  to  Him 445 


THE 


SHADOW    OF    ASHLYDYAT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   MEET   OP   THE   HOUNDS. 

It  was  a  bright  day  in  autumn: 
the  scene  one  of  those  fair  ones  rarely 
to  be  witnessed  but  in  England.  The 
sun,  warm,  and  glowing,  almost  befit- 
ting a  summer's  day,  shone  on  the 
stubble  of  the  corn-fields,  whence  the 
golden  grain  had  recently  been  gath- 
ered, gilded  the  tops  of  the  trees, — 
so  soon  to  pass  into  the  "  sere  and 
yellow  leaf," — illumined  the  blue  hills 
in  the  distance,  and  brought  out  the 
nearer  features  of  the  landscape  in  all 
their  light  and  shade.  A  fine  land- 
scape, as  you  gazed  at  it  from  this 
high  ground,  where  you  may  suppose 
yourself  to  be  standing  :  comprising 
hill  and  dale,  water  and  green  pas- 
tures, woods  and  open  plains.  Amidst 
them  rose  the  marks  of  busy  life  ; 
mansions,  cottages,  hamlets,  railways ; 
and  churches,  whose  steeples  ascended 
high, — pointing  the  way  to  a  better 
land. 

The  town  of  Prior's  Ash,  lying  in 
a  valley,  was  alive  that  gay  morning 
with  excitement.  It  was  the  day  ap- 
pointed for  the  first  meet  of  the  hounds, 
— the  P.  A.  hounds,  of  some  im- 
portance in  the  county, — and  people 
from  far  and  near  were  flocking  to  see 
them  throw  off.  Old  and  young,  gen- 
tle and  simple,  lords  of  the  soil  and 
tradesmen,  all  were  wending  their 
way  to  the  place  of  meeting.  The 
master,  Colonel  Max,  was  wont,  on 


this,  the  inaugurating  morning  of  the 
season,  to  assemble  at  his  house  for 
breakfast  as  many  as  his  large  dining- 
room  could  by  any  species  of  crowding 
contain  ;  and  a  fine  sight  it  was,  and 
drew  forth  its  numerous  spectators,  to 
watch  them  come  afterwards,  in  pro- 
cession, to  the  meet.  As  many  car- 
riages-and-four,  with  their  fair  occu- 
pants, would  come  to  that  first  meet, 
as  you  could  have  seen  in  the  old  days 
on  a  county  race-course.  It  was  an 
old-fashioned,  local  custom,  this  show ; 
Col.  Max  was  pleased  to  keep  it  up  ; 
and  he  lacked  not  supporters.  The 
opening,  this  year,  was  unusually 
early. 

The  gay  crowd  was  arriving,  thick 
and  threefold  ;  some  from  the  break- 
fast, some  from  their  homes.  The 
rendezvous  was  a  wide,  open  com- 
mon ;  no  space  lacking, 
strained  hounds  snarled 
short  distance,  and  their  attendants, 
attired  for  the  hunt,  clashed  their 
whips  among  them. 

Riding  a  noble  horse,  and  advanc- 
ing from  the  opposite  direction  to  that 
of  Colonel  Max  and  his  guests,  came 
a  tall,  stately  man,  getting  in  years. 
His  features  were  regular  as  though 
they  had  been  chiselled  from  marble  ; 
his  fine  blue  eyes  could  sparkle  yet ; 
and  his  snow-white  hair,  wavy  as  of 
yore,  was  worn  rather  long  behind, 
giving  to  him  somewhat  the  appear- 
ance of  a  patriarch.  But  the  healthy 
bloom,  which  had  once  been  charac- 
teristic of  his  face,  had  left  it  now  : 
(23) 


The    re- 
away  at  a 


24 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT. 


the  paleness  of  ill-health  sat  there, 
and  he  bent  his  body  continually,  as 
if  too  weak  to  bear  up  on  his  horse. 
His  approach  was  discerned  ;  and 
many  started  forward,  as  with  one 
impulse,  to  greet  him.  None  stood 
higher  in  the  estimation  of  his  fellow- 
men  than  did  Sir  George  Godolphin  ; 
no  other  name  was  more  respected  in 
the  county. 

"  This  is  good  indeed,  Sir  George  ! 
To  see  you  out  again  !" 

"I  thought  I  might  venture," 
said  Sir  George,  essaying  to  meet  a 
dozen  hands  at  once.  "  It  has  been 
a  long  confinement ;  a  tedious  illness. 
Six  months,  and  never  out  of  the 
house ;  and,  for  the  last  fortnight  out 
but  in  a  garden-chair.  My  lady 
wanted  to  box  me  up  in  the  carriage 
this  morning, — if  I  must  come,  she 
said.  But  I  would  not  have  it :  had 
I  been  unable  to  sit  my  horse,  I  would 
have  remained  at  home." 

"  You  feel  weak  still?"  remarked 
one,  after  most  of  the  greeters  had  had 
their  say,  and  were  moving  away. 

"Ay.  Strength,  for  me,  has  finally 
departed,  I  fear." 

"  But  you  must  not  think  that,  Sir 
George.  Now  that  you  are  so  far 
recovered  as  to  go  out,  you  will  im- 
prove daily." 

"  And  get  well  all  one  way,  Godol- 
phin," joined  in  the  heart}7  voice  of 
Colonel  Max.  "  Never  lose  heart, 
man." 

Sir  George  turned  his  eyes  upon 
Colonel  Max  with  a  cheerful  glance. 
"  Who  told  you  I  was  losing  heart?" 

"  Yourself.  When  a  man  begins 
to  talk  of  his  strength  having  finally 
departed,  what's  that  but  a  proof  of 
his  losing  heart  ?  Low  spirits  never 
cured  anybody  yet :  but  they  have 
killed  thousands." 

"  I  shall  be  sixty-six  years  old  to- 
morrow, colonel :  and  if,  at  that  age, 
I  can  '  lose  heart '  at  the  prospect  of 
the  great  change,  my  life  has  served 
me  to  little  purpose.  The  young  may 
faint  at  the  near  approach  of  death  ; 
the  old  should  not." 

"  Sixty-six,  old  !"  ejaculated  Col- 
onel Max.     "  I  have  never  kept  count 


of  my  own  age,  but  I  know  I  am  that, 
if  I  am  a  day  ;  and  I  am  young  yet. 
I  may  live  these  thirty  years  to  come  : 
and  shall  try  for  it,  too." 

"  I  hope  you  will,  colonel,"  was  the 
warm  answer  of  Sir  George  Godol- 
phin. "  Prior's  Ash  could  ill  spare 
you." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  laughed 
the  colonel.  "  But  I  do  know  that  I 
could  ill  spare  life.  I  wish  you  could 
take  the  run  with  us  this  morning  !'" 

"  I  wish  I  could.  But  that  you 
might  accuse  me  again  of — what  was 
it  ? — losing  heart,  I  would  say  that 
my  last  run  with  the  hounds  has  been 
taken.  It  has  cost  me  an  effort  to 
come  so  far  as  this,  walking  my  horse 
at  a  snail's-pace.  Do  you  see  Lady 
Godolphin  ?     She  ought  to  be  here." 

Colonel  Max,  who  was  a  short  man, 
raised  himself  in  his  stirrups,  and 
gazed  from  point  to  point  of  the 
gradually-increasing  crowd.  "  In  her 
carriage,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  In  her  carriage,  of  course,"  an- 
swered Sir  George.  "  She  is  no  Ama- 
zon." But  he  did  not  avow  his  rea.son 
for  inquiring  after  his  wife's  carriage, — 
that  he  felt  a  giddiness  stealing  over 
him,  and  deemed  he  might  be  glad  of 
its  support.  Neither  did  he  explain 
that  he  was  unable  to  look  round  for 
it  himself  just  then,  under  fear  of 
falling  from  his  horse. 

"  I  don't  think  she  has  come  yet,*' 
said  Colonel  Max.  "  I  do  not  see  the 
livery.  As  to  the  ladies,  they  all  look 
so  like  one  another  now,  with  their 
furbelows  and  feathers,  that  I'll  be 
shot  if  I  should  know  my  own  wife — 
if  I  had  one — at  a  dozen  paces'  dis- 
tance. Ilere  is  some  one  else,  how- 
ever." 1 

"  Biding  up  quietly,  and  reining-in 
at  the  side  of  Sir  George,  was  a  gen- 
tleman of  middle  height,  with  dark 
hair,  dark-gray  eyes,  and  a  quiet,  pale 
countenance.  In  age  he  may  have 
wanted  some  three  or  four  years  of 
forty,  and  a  casual  observer  might 
have  pronounced  him  "  insignificant," 
and  never  have  cast  on  him  a  second 
glance.  But  there  was  a  certain  at- 
traction in  his  face,  for  all  that ;  and 


T  II  E     SHADOW     OF     ASELLYDYAT. 


25 


his  voice  sounded  wonderfully  sweet 
and  kind  as  he  grasped  the  hand  of 
Sir  George. 

"  My  dear  father  !  I  am  so  glad 
to  see  you  here  !" 

"  And  surprised  too,  I  conclude, 
Thomas,"  returned  Sir  George,  smiling 
on  his  son.  "  Come  close  to  me,  will 
you,  and  let  me  rest  my  arm  upon 
your  shoulder  for  a  minute.  I  feel 
somewhat  giddy." 

"  Should  you  have  ventured  out  on 
horseback  ?"  inquired  Thomas  Go'dol- 
phin,  as  he  hastened  to  place  himself 
in  proximity  with  his  father. 

"  The  air  will  do  me  good ;  and  the 
exertion  also.  It  is  nothing  to  feel  a 
little  weak  after  a  confinement  such 
as  mine  has  been.  You  don't  follow 
the  hounds  to-day,  I  see,  Thomas," 
continued  Sir  George,  noting  his  son's 
plain  costume. 

A  smile  crossed  Thomas  Godol- 
phin's  lips.  "  No,  sir.  I  rarely  do 
follow  them.  I  leave  amusement  for 
George." 

"  Is  he  here,  that  graceless  George  ?" 
demanded  the  knight,  searching  into 
the  crowd  with  fond  and  admiring 
eyes.  But  the  admiring  eyes  did  not 
see  the  object  they  thought  to  rest  on. 

"  He  is  sure  to  be  here,  sir.  I  have 
not  seen  him." 

"  And  your  sisters  ?  Are  they 
here  ?" 

"  No.    They  did  not  care  to  come." 

"  Speak  for  Janet  and  Cecil,  if  you 
please,  Thomas,"  interrupted  a  young 
lady's  voice  at  this  juncture.  The 
knight  looked  down ;  his  son  looked 
down  :  there  stood  the  second  daugh- 
ter of  the  family,  Bessy  Godolphin. 
She  was  a  dark,  quick,  active  little 
woman  of  thirty,  with  an  ever-ready 
tongue,  and  deep-gray  eyes. 

"  Bessy  !"  uttered  Sir  George,  in 
astonishment.  "Have  you  come  here 
on  foot  ?" 

"  Yes,  papa.  Thomas  asked  us 
whether  we  wished  to  see  the  meet ; 
and  Janet — who  must  be  master  and 
mistress  always,  you  know— answered 
that  we  did  not.  Cecil  dutifully  agreed 
with  her.  I  did  care  to  see  it ;  so  I 
came  alone." 


"  But,  Bessy,  why  did  you  not  say 
so  ?"  remonstrated  Mr.  Godolphin. 
"  You  should  have  ordered  the  car- 
riage ;  you  should  not  have  come  on 
foot.     What  will  people  think  ?" 

"  Think  !"  she  echoed,  holding  up 
her  pleasant  face  to  her  brother,  in  its 
saucy  independence.  "  They  can  think 
any  thing  they  please :  I  am  Bessy 
Godolphin.  I  wonder  how  many  scores 
have  come  on  foot  ?" 

"  None,  Bessy,  in  your  degree,  who 
have  carriages  to  sit  in,  or  horses  to 
ride,"  said  Sir  George. 

"  Papa,  I  like  to  use  my  legs  better 
than  to  have  them  cramped  under  a 
habit  or  in  a  carriage  ;  and  you  know 
I  never  could  bow  to  fashion  and 
form,"  she  laughed.  "  Dear  papa,  I 
am  delighted  to  see  you  !  I  was  so 
thankful  when  I  heard  you  were  here  ! 
Janet  will  be  fit  to  eat  her  own  head 
now,  for  not  coming." 

"  Who  told  you  I  was  here,  Bessy  ?" 

"  Old  Jekyl.  He  was  leaning  on 
his  palings  as  I  came  by,  and  called 
out  the  information  to  me  almost  be- 
fore I  could  hear :  '  The  master's  gone 
to  it,  Miss  Bessy  !  he  is  out  once 
again  !  But  he  had  not  got  on  his 
scarlet,'  the  old  fellow  added ;  and 
his  face  lost  its  gladness.  Papa,  the 
whole  world  is  delighted  that  you 
should  have  recovered,  and  be  once 
more  amongst  them. " 

"  Not  quite  recovered  yet,  Bessy. 
Getting  feetter,  though  ;  getting  bet- 
ter. Thank  you,  Thomas  ;  the  faint  - 
ness  has  passed." 

"  Is  not  Lady  Godolphin  here, 
papa  ?" 

"  She  must  be  here  by  this  time.  I 
wish  I  could  see  her  carriage  :  you 
must  get  into  it. " 

"I  did  not  come  for  that,  papa," 
returned  quick  Bessy,  with  a  touch 
of  her  warm  temper. 

"  My  dear,  I  wish  you  to>  join  her:. 
I  do  not  like  to  see  you  here  on  foot." 

"  I  shall  set  the  fashion,  papa," 
laughed  Bessy,  again.  "  At  the  great 
meet  next  year,  you  will  see  half  the 
stylish  pretenders  of  the  county  toil- 
ing here  on  their  two  feet.  I  say  I 
am  Bessy  Godolphin."' 


26 


THE     SHADOW     OF      ASHLYDYAT 


The  knight  ranged  his  eyes  over 
the  motley  group,  but  he  could  not 
discern  his  wife.  Sturdy,  bluff  old 
fox-hunters  were  there  in  plenty,  and 
well  got-up  young  gentlemen,  all  on 
horseback,  their  white  cords  and  their 
scarlet  coats  gleaming  in  the  sun. 
Ladies  were  mostly  in  carriages  ;  a 
few  were  mounted,  who  would  ride 
quietly  home  again  when  the  hounds 
had  thrown  off;  a  very  few — they 
might  be  counted  by  units — would 
follow  the  field.  Prior's  Ash  and  its 
neighborhood  was  supplied  in  a  very 
limited  degree  with  what  they  were 
pleased  to  call  masculine  women  :  for, 
the  term  "fast"  had  not  then  come  in. 
Many  a  pretty  woman,  many  a  pretty 
girl  was  present,  and  the  sportsmen 
lingered,  and  were  well  pleased  to  lin- 
ger, in  the  sunshine  of  their  charms, 
ere  the  business,  for  which  they  had 
come  out,  began,  and  they  should  throw 
themselves,  heart  and  energy,  into  it. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  sit- 
ting her  horse  well,  was  a  handsome 
girl  of  right  regal  features  and  black 
flashing  eyes.  Above  the  ordinary 
height  of  woman,  she  was  finely 
formed,  her  waist  slender,  her  shoul- 
ders beautifully  modelled.  She  wore 
a  peculiar  dress,  and,  from  that  cause 
alone,  many  eyes  were  on  her.  A 
well-fitting  habit  of  bright  grass-green, 
ornamented  on  the  corsage  with  but- 
tons of  silver-gilt ;  similar  buttons 
were  also  on  the  sleeves  at  *he  wrist, 
but  they  were  partially  hidden  by  her 
white  gauntlets.  A  cap,  grass-green, 
rested  on  the  upper  part  of  her  fore- 
head, a  green-and-gold  feather  on  its 
left  side,  which  glittered  as  the  sun's 
rays  played  upon  it  It  was  a  style 
of  dress  which  had  not  yet  been  seen 
at  Prior's  Ash,  and  was  regarded  with 
some  doubt.  But,  as  you  are  aware, 
it  is  not  a  dress  in  itself  which  is  con- 
demned or  extolled  :  it  depends  upon 
who  it  is  that  wears  it :  and,  as  the 
young  lady,  wearing  this,  was  just 
now  the  fashion  at  Prior's  Ash,  the 
feather  and  habit  were  taken  into  fa- 
vor forthwith.  She  could  have  worn 
none  more  adapted  to  her  peculiar 
style  of  beauty. 


Bending  to  his  very  saddle's  bow, 
as  he  talked  to  her, — for,  though  she 
was  tall,  he  was  taller  still, — was  a 
gentleman  of  courtly  mien.  In  his 
line  upright  figure,  his  fair  complexion 
and  wavy  hair,  his  good  features  and 
dark  blue  eyes,  might  be  traced  a 
strong  resemblance  to  Sir  George  Go- 
dolphin.  But  the  lips  had  a  more 
ready  smile  upon  them  than  Sir 
George's  had  ever  worn,  for  his  had 
always  been  somewhat  of  the  sternest; 
the  blue  eyes  twinkled  with  a  gayer 
and  more  suspicious  light,  when  ga- 
zing into  other  eyes,  than  could  ever 
have  been  charged  upon  Sir  George  : 
but  the  bright  complexion  had  been 
Sir  George's  once  :  imparting  to  his 
face,  as  it  now  did  to  his  son's,  a  deli- 
cate beauty,  almost  as  that  of  woman. 
"  Graceless  George,"  old  Sir  George 
was  fond  of  calling  him  ;  but  it  was 
an  appellation  given  in  love,  in  pride, 
in  admiration.  He  bent  to  his  saddle- 
bow, and  his  gay  blue  eyes  flashed 
with  unmistakable  admiration  into 
those  black  ones  as  he  talked  to  the 
lady  :  and  the  black  ones  most  cer- 
tainly flashed  the  admiration  back 
again.  Dangerous  eyes,  were  those 
of  Charlotte  Pain's  !  And  not  alto- 
gether lovable  ones. 

"  Do  you  always  keep  your  prom- 
ises like  you  kept  that  one  yester- 
day ?"  she  was  asking  him. 

"  I  did  not  make  a  promise  yester- 
day,— that  I  remember.  Had  I  made 
one  to  you,  I  should  have  kept  it." 

"Fickle  and  faithless  !"  she  cried. 
"  Men's  promises  are  lasting  as  words 
traced  upon  the  sea-sicle  sand.  When 
you  met  me  yesterday  in  the  carriage 
with  Mrs.  Yerrall,  and  she  asked  you 
to  take  compassion  on  two  forlorn 
dames  and  come  in  to  Ashlydyat  in 
the  evening,  and  dissipate  our  ennui, 
what  was  your  answer  ?" 

"  That  I  would,  if  it  were  possible." 

"  Was  nothing  more  explicit  im- 
plied ?" 

George  Godolphin  laughed.  Per- 
haps his  conscience  told  him  that  he 
had  implied  more,  in  a  certain  pres- 
sure he  remembered  giving  to  that 
fair  hand,  which   was    resting  now, 


THE      SITADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


27 


gauntleted,  upon  her  reins.  Gay 
George  had  meant  to  dissipate  Ashly- 
dyat's  ennui,  if  nothing  more  tempt- 
ing offered.  But  something  more 
tempting  did  offer :  and  he  had  spent 
the  evening  in  the  company  of  one 
who  was  more  to  him  than  was  Char- 
lotte Pain. 

"An  unavoidable  engagement  arose, 
Miss  Pain.  Otherwise  you  may  rely 
upon  it  I  should  have  been  at  Ashly- 
dyat." 

"  Unavoidable  !"  she  replied,  her 
eyes  gleaming  with  something  very 
like  anger  into  those  which  smiled  on 
her.  "  I  know  what  your  engage- 
ment was.  You  were  at  Lady  Go- 
dolphin's  Folly." 

"  Right.  Commanded  to  it  by  my 
father." 

"Oh!" 

"  Solicited,  if  not  absolutely  com- 
manded," he  continued.  "And  a  wish 
from  Sir  George  now  bears  its  weight : 
we  may  not  have  him  very  long  with 
us." 

A  smile  of  mockery,  pretty  and  fas- 
cinating to  look  upon,  played  upon 
her  rich  red  lips.  "  It  is  edifying  to 
hear  these  filial  sentiments  expressed 
by  Mr.  George  Godophin  !  Take  you 
care,  sir,  to  act  up  to  them." 

"  Do  you  think  I  need  the  injunc- 
tion ?  How  shall  I  make  my  peace 
with  you  ?" 

"  By  coming  to  Ashlydyat  some 
other  evening  while  the  present  moon 
lasts.  I  mean,  while  it  illumines  the 
early  part  of  the  evening." 

She  dropped  her  voice  to  a  low 
key,  and  her  tone  had  changed  to  se- 
riousness. George  Godolphin  looked 
at  her  in  surpi'ise. 

"What  is  the  superstition?"  she 
continued  to  whisper,  "  that  attaches 
to  Ashlydyat  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  this  ?"  he 
hastily  said. 

"  Because,  yesterday  evening,  when 
I  was  sitting  on  that  seat  underneath 
the  ash-trees,  watching  the  road  from 
Lady  Godolphin's  Folly, — well,  watch- 
ing for  you,  if  you  like  it  better :  but 
I  can  assure  you  there  is  nothing  in 
the    avowal  that  need   excite   your 


vanity,  as  I  see  it  is  doing.  When  a 
gentleman  makes  a  promise,  I  expect 
him  to  keep  it ;  and,  looking  upon 
your  coming  as  a  matter  of  course,  I 
did  watch  for  you  ;  as  I  might  watch 
for  one  of  Mrs.  Verrall's  servants,  bad 
I  sent  him  on  an  errand  and  expected 
his  return." 

"  Thank  you,"  laughed  George  Go- 
dolphin.  "  But  suffer  my  vanity  to 
rest  in  abeyance  for  a  while,  will  you, 
and  go  on  with  what  you  were  saying  ?" 

"  Are  you  a  convert  to  the  super- 
stition ?"  she  inquired,  disregarding 
the  request. 

"  N — o,"  replied  George  Godol- 
phin. But  his  voice  sounded  strangely 
indecisive.  "  Pray  continue,  Char- 
lotte." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
called  her  by  her  Christian  name  :  and 
though  she  saw  that  it  was  but  done 
in  the  unconscious  excitement  of  the 
moment,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  a 
deeper  crimson. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  shadow  ?" 
she  breathed. 

He  bowed  his  head. 

"  What  form  does  it  take  ?" 

George  Godolphin  did  not  answer. 
He  appeared  lost  in  thought,  as  he 
scored  his  horse's  neck  with  his  hunt- 
ing-whip. 

"  The  form  of  a  bier  on  which  rests 
something  covered  with  a  pall,  that 
may  be  supposed  to  be  a  coffin ;  with 
a  mourner  at  the  head  and  at  the 
foot  ?"  she  wdiispered. 

He  bowed  his  head  again :  very 
gravely. 

"  Then  I  saw  it  last  night.  I  did 
indeed.  I  was  sitting  underneath  the 
ash-trees,  and  I  saw  a  strange  shadow 
in  the  moonlight  that  I  had  never  seen 
before — " 

"  Where  ?"  he  interrupted. 
'  "  In  that  wild-looking  part  of  the 
grounds  as  you  look  across  from  the 
ash-trees.  Just  in  front  of  the  arch- 
way, where  the  ground  is  bare.  It 
was  there.  Mr.  Verrall  says  he  won- 
ders Sir  George  does  not  have  those 
gorse-bushes  cleared  away,  and  the 
ground  converted  into  civilized  land, 
like  the  rest." 


28 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


"  It  has  been  done,  but  the  bushes 
grow  again." 

"  Well,  I  was  sitting  there,  and  I 
saw  this  unusual  shadow.  It  arrested 
ray  eye  at  once.  Where  did  it  come 
from  ?  I  wondered  :  what  cast  it  ?  I 
never  thought  of  the  Ashlydyat  su- 
perstition ;  never  for  a  moment.  I 
only  thought  what  a  strange  appear- 
ance the  shadow  wore.  I  thought  of 
a  lying-in-state  ;  I  thought  of  a  state- 
funeral,  where  the  coffin  rests  on  a 
bier,  and  a  mourner  sits  at  the  head 
and  a  mourner  at  the  foot.  Shall  I 
tell  you,"  she  suddenly  broke  off,  "what 
the  scene  altogether  looked  like  ?" 

"Do  so." 

"  Like  a  graveyard.  They  may 
call  it  the  Dark  Plain  !  The  shadow 
might  be  taken  for  a  huge  tomb,  with 
two  images  weeping  over  it,  and  the 
bushes,  around,  assumed  the  form  of 
lesser  ones.  Some,  square  ;  some, 
Long ;  some,  high  ;  some,  low ;  but 
all  looking  not  unlike  graves  in  the 
moonlight." 

"  Moonlight  shadows  are  apt  to 
bear  fanciful  forms  to  a  vivid  imagina- 
tion, Miss  Pain,"  he  lightly  said. 

"  Have  not  others  indulged  the 
same  fancy  before  me  ?  I  remember 
to  have  heard  so." 

"  As  they  have  said.  They  never 
took  the  form  to  my  sight,"  he  ob- 
served, with  a  half-smile  of  ridicule. 
"When  I  know  bushes  to  be  bushes, 
I  cannot,  by  any  stretch  of  imagina- 
tion, magnify  them  into  graves.  You 
must  have  had  this  Ashlydyat  non- 
sense in  your  head." 

"  I  have  assured  you  that  I  had  not. 
It  was  only  after  I  had  been  regard- 
ing it  for  some  time, — and  the  longer 
I  looked  the  plainer  the  shadow  seem- 
ed to  grow, — that  I  thought  of  the 
Ashlydyat  tale.  All  in  an  instant  the 
truth  flashed  upon  me, — that  it  must 
be  the  apparition — " 

"  The  what,  Miss  Pain  ?" 

"  Does  the  word  offend  you  ?  It  is 
a  foolish  one.  The  shadow,  then.  I 
remembered  that  the  shadow,  so 
dreaded  by  the  Godolphins,  did  take 
the  form  of  a  bier  with  mourners 
weeping  at  it — " 


"Was  said  to  take  it,"  he  inter- 
posed, in  a  tone  of  quiet  reproof: 
"that  would,  be  the  better  phrase. 
And,  in  speaking  of  the  shadow  being 
dreaded  by  the  Godolphins,  you  al- 
lude, I  presume,  to  the  Godolphins  of 
the  past  ages.  I  know  of  none  in  the 
present  who  dread  it :  save  super-, 
stitious  Janet." 

"How  touchy  you  are  upon  the 
point !"  she  laughed.  "  Do  you  know, 
George  Godolphin,  that  that  very 
touchiness  betrays  the  fact  that  you, 
for  one,  are  not  exempt  from  the 
dread.  "And,"  she  added,  changing 
her  tone  again  to  one  of  serious  sym- 
pathy, "  did  not  the  dread  help  to  kill 
Mrs.  Godolphin  ?" 

"  No,"  he  gravely  answered.  "  If 
you  give  ear  to  all  the  stories  that 
the  old  wives  of  the  neighborhood 
love  to  indulge  in,  you  will  collect  a 
valuable  stock  of  fable-lore." 

"  Let  it  pass.  If  I  repeated  the 
fable,  it  was  because  I  had  heard  it. 
But,  now  you  will  understand  why  I 
felt  vexed  last  night  when  you  did  not 
come.  It  was  not  for  your  sweet 
company  I  was  pining,  as  your  vanity 
has  been  assuming,  but  that  I  wanted 
you  to  see  the  shadow.  How  that 
girl  is  fixing  her  eyes  upon  us  !" 

George  Godolphin  turned  at  the 
last  sentence,  which  was  uttered  ab- 
ruptly. An  open  barouche  had  drawn 
up,  and  its  occupants,  two  ladies, 
were  both  looking  towards  them. 
The  one  was  a  young  girl,  with  a 
pale,  gentle  face  and  dark  eyes,  as 
remarkable  for  their  refined  sweetness, 
as  Miss  Pain's  were  for  their  bril- 
liancy. The  other  was  a  little  lady 
of  middle  age,  dressed  youthfully,  and 
whose  naturally  fair  complexion  was 
so  excessively  soft  and  clear,  as  to 
give  a  suspicion  that  nature  had  less 
hand  in  it  than  art.  It  was  Lady 
Godolphin.  She  held  her  eye-glass 
to  her  eye,  and  turned  it  on  the 
crowd. 

"  Maria,  whatever  is  that  on  horse- 
back ?     It  looks  green." 

"  It  is  Charlotte  Pain  in  a  grass- 
green  riding-habit." 

"A  srrass-green  riding-habit  !    And 


THE      S  n  A  D  0  W      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


29 


her  head  seems  to  glitter  !  Has  she 
any  thing  in  her  cap  ?" 

"  It  appears  to  be  a  gold  feather." 

"  She  must  look  beautiful  !  Very 
handsome,  does  she  not  ?" 

"For  those  who  admire  her  style — 
very,"  replied  Maria  Hastings. 

Which  was  certainly  not  the  style 
of  Maria  Hastings.  Quiet,  retiring, 
gentle,  she  could  only  wonder  at  those 
who  dressed  in  bright-colored  habits 
with  gold  buttons  and  feathers,  and 
followed  the  hounds  over  ditches  and 
gates.  Miss  Hastings  wore  a  pretty, 
white-silk  bonnet,  and  grey  Cashmere 
mantle.  Nothing  could  be  plainer; 
but  then,  she  was  a  clergyman^ 
daughter. 

"It  is  on  these  occasions  that  I 
regret  my  deficiency  of  sight,"  said 
Lady  Godolphin.  "  Who  is  that,  in 
scarlet,  talking  to  her  ?  It  is  like  the 
figure  of  George  Godolphin." 

"It  is  he,"  said  Maria.  "He  is 
coming  towards  us."  , 

He  was  piloting  his  horse  through 
the  throng,  returning  greetings  from 
everybody  :  a  universal  favorite  was 
George  Godolphin.  Charlotte  Pain's 
fine  eyes  were  following  him  with 
somewhat  dimmed  brilliancy:  he  was 
not  so  entirely  hers  as  she  could  wish 
to  see  him. 

"  How  are  you  this  morning,  Lady 
Godolphin  ?"  But  it  was  on  the  hand 
of  Maria  Hastings  that  his  own  lin- 
gered :  and  her  cheeks  took  the  hue 
of  Charlotte  Pain's,  as  he  bent  low  to 
whisper  words  that  were  all  too  dear. 

"George,  do  you  know  that  your 
father  is  here  ?"  said  Lady  Godolphin. 

George,  in  his  surprise,  drew  him- 
self upright  on  his  horse.  "  My 
father  here  !     Is  he  indeed  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  on  horseback.  Very 
unwise  of  him ;  but  he  would  not  be 
persuaded  from  it.  It  was  a  sudden 
resolution  that  he  appeared  to  take  :  I 
suppose  the  fineness  of  the  morning 
tempted  him.  Miss  Maria  Hastings, 
what  nonsense  has  George  been  saying 
to  you  ?  Your  face  is  as  red  as  his 
coat  " 


"  That  is  what  I  was  saying  to  hei'," 
laughed  George  Godolphin.  "Asking 
her  where  her  cheeks  had  borrowed 
their  roses  from." 

A  parting  of  the  crowd  brought  Sir 
George  Godolphin  within  view,  and 
the  family  drew  together  in  a  group. 
Up  went  Lady  Godolphin's  glass 
again. 

"  Is  that  Bessy  ?  My  dear,  with 
whom  did  you  come  ?" 

"  I  came  by  myself,  Lady  Godol- 
phin.    I  walked." 

"Oh  dear!"  uttered  Lady  Godol- 
phin. "You  do  the  wildest  things, 
Bessy  !  And  Sir  George  allows  you 
to  do  them  !" 

"  Sir  George  does  not,"  spoke  the 
knight.  "  Sir  George  had  already 
desired  her  to  take  her  place  in  the 
carriage.     Open  the  door,  James." 

Bessy  laughed  as  she  stepped  into 
it.  She  cheerfully  obeyed  her  father ; 
out  any  thing  like  ceremony,  or,  as  the 
world  may  call  it,  etiquette,  she 
waged  war  with. 

"  I  expected  to  meet  your  sisters 
here,  Bessy,"  said  Lady  Godolphin. 
"  I  want  you  all  to  dine  with  me  to- 
day. We  must  celebrate  the  first 
going  out  of  your  father.  You  will 
bear  the  invitation  to  them. " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Bessy.  "  We  shall 
be  happy  to  come.  I  know  Janet  has 
no  engagement." 

"An  early  dinner,  mind  :  five  o'clock. 
Sir  George  cannot  wait." 

"  To  dine  at  supper-time,"  chimed 
in  unfashionable  Bessy.  "  George, 
do  you  hear  ?  Lady  Godolphin's,  at 
five." 

A  movement ;  a  rush ;  a  whirl. 
The  hounds  were  preparing  to  throw 
off,  and  the  field  was  gathering. 
George  Godolphin  hastily  quitted  the 
side  of  Miss  Hastings,  though  he 
found  time  for  a  stolen  whisper. 

"  Fare  you  well,  my  dearest." 

And,  when  she  next  saw  him,  after 
the  noise  and  the  confusion  had  cleared 
away,  he  was  galloping  in  the  wake 
of  the  baying  pack,  side  by  side  with 
Charlotte  Pain. 


30 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


CHAPTER    II. 

LADY   GODOLPHIN'S   FOLLY. 

Prior's  Ash  was  not  a  large  town, 
though  of  some  importance  in  country 
estimation.  In  the  days  of  the  monks, 
when  all  good  people  were  Roman 
Catholics,  or  professed  to  be,  it  had 
been  but  a  handful  of  houses,  which 
various  necessities  had  caused  to 
spring  up  around  the  priory :  a  flour- 
ishing and  crowded  establishment  of 
religious  men  then ;  a  place  marked 
but  by  a  few  ruins  now.  In  process 
of  time  the  handful  of  houses  had 
increased  to  several  handfuls,  the 
handfuls  to  a  village,  and  the  village 
to  a  borough  town  ;  still  retaining  the 
name  bestowed  on  it  by  the  monks, — 
"Prior's  Ash." 

In  the  heart  of  the  town  was  sit- 
uated the  banking-house  of  Godolphim 
Crosse,  and  Godolphin.  It  was  al 
old-established  and  most  respected 
firm,  sound  and  wealthy.  The  third 
partner  and  second  Godolphin,  men- 
tioned in  it,  was  Thomas  Godolphin, 
Sir  George  Godolphin's  eldest  son. 
Until  he  joined  it,  it  had  been  Godol- 
phin and  Crosse.  It  was  a  matter 
of  arrangement,  understood  by  Mr. 
Crosse,  that  when  any  thing  happened 
to  Sir  George,  Thomas  would  step 
into  his  father's  place,  as  the  firm's 
head,  and  George,  whose  name  at 
present  did  not  appear,  though  he 
had  been  long  in  the  bank,  would 
represent  the  last  name  :  so  that  it 
would  still  remain  Godolphin,  Crosse, 
and  Godolphin.  Mr.  Crosse,  who, 
like  Sir  George,  was  getting  in  years, 
was  remarkable  for  nothing  but  a 
close  attention  to  business.  He  was 
a  widower,  without  children,  and 
Prior's  Ash  wondered  who  would  be 
the  better  for  the  filling  of  his  garners. 

The  Godolphins  could  trace  them- 
selves back  to  the  ages  of  the  monks. 
But  of  no  very  high  ancestry  boasted 
they ;  no  titles,  places,  or  honors ; 
they  ranked  amongst  the  landed  gen- 
try as  owners  of  Ashlydyat,  and  that 
was  all.  It  Avas  quite  enough  for 
them  :  to  be  lords  of  Ashlydyat  was 


an  honor  they  would  not  have  bar- 
tered for  a  kingdom's  dukedom.  They 
held  by  Ashlydyat.  It  was  their 
pride,  their  stronghold,  their  boast : 
had  feudal  times  been  in  fashion  now, 
they  would  have  dug  a  moat  around 
it,  and  fenced  it  in  with  fortifications, 
and  called  it  their  castle.  Why  did 
they  so  love  it  ?  It  was  but  a  poor 
place,  at  best,  nothing  to  look  at ;  and, 
in  the  matter  of  space  inside,  was 
somewhat  straightened.  Oak-panell- 
ed rooms,  dark  as  mahogony,  gar- 
nished with  cross  beams,  low  ceilings 
and  mullioned  windows,  are  not  the 
most  consonant  to  modern  taste. 
People  thought  that  the  Godolphins 
loved  it  from  its  associations  and 
traditions, — from  the  very  fact  that 
certain  superstitions  attached  to  it 
Foolish  superstitions,  you  will  be 
inclined  to  call  them,  as  contrasted 
with  the  enlightenment  of  these  mat- 
ter-of-fact days, — I  had  almost  said 
these  days  of  materialism. 

Ashlydyat  was  not  entailed.  There 
was  a  clause  in  the  old  deeds  of  tenure 
which  prevented  it.  A  wicked  Godol- 
phin (by  which  complimentary  appel- 
lation his  descendants  distinguished 
him)  had  cut  off  the  entail,  and  gam- 
bled the  estate  away  ;  and  though  the 
Godolphins  got  it  back  again  in  the 
course  of  one  or  two  lives,  the  entail 
was  not  renewed.  It  was  now  be- 
queathed from  father  to  son,  and  was 
always  the  residence  of  the  reigning 
Godolphin.  Thomas  Godolphin  knew 
that  it  would  become  his  on  the  death 
of  his  father,  as  surely  as  if  he  were 
the  heir  by  entail.  The  late  Mr. 
Godolphin,  Sir  George's  father,  had 
lived  and  died  in  it.  Sir  George 
succeeded,  and  then  he  lived  in  it, — 
with  his  wife  and  children.  But  he 
was  not  Sir  George  then  :  therefore, 
for  a  few  minutes,  while  speaking  of 
this  part  of  his  life,  we  will  call  him ' 
what  he  was, — Mr.  Godolphin.  A 
pensive,  thoughtful  woman  was  Mrs. 
Godolphin,  never  too  strong  in  health. 
She  was  Scotch  by  birth.  Of  her 
children,  Thomas  and  Janet  mostly 
resembled  her ;  Bessy  was  like  nobody 
but  herself;  George  and  Cecil  inhcr- 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT 


31 


ited  the  beauty  of  their  father.  There 
was  considerable  difference  in  the  ages 
of  the  children,  for  they  had  numbered 
thirteen.  Thomas  was  the  eldest, 
Cecil  the  youngest;  Janet,  Bessy,  and 
George  were  between  them  ;  and  the 
rest,  who  had  also  been  between  them, 
had  died,  mostly  infants.  But,  a 
moment  yet,  to  give  a  word  to  the 
description  of  Ashlydyat,  before  speak- 
ing of  the  death  of  Mrs.  Godolphin. 

Passing  out  of  Prior's  Ash  towards 
the  west,  a  turning  to  the  left  of  the 
high-road  took  you  to  Ashlydyat. 
Built  of  grey  stone,  and  lying  some- 
what in  a  hollow,  it  wore  altogether 
a  gloomy  appearauee.  And  it  was 
intensely  ugly.  A  low  building  of 
two  stories,  irregularly  built,  with 
gables  and  nooks  and  ins-and-outs  of 
corners,  and  a  square  turret  in  the 
middle,  which  was  good  for  nothing 
but  the  birds  to  build  on.  It  wore  a 
time-honored  look,  though,  with  all 
its  ugliness,  and  the  moss  gi'ew,  green 
and  picturesque,  on  its  walls.  Per- 
haps on  the  principle,  or,  let  us  say, 
by  the  subtle  instinct  of  nature,  that 
a  mother  loves  a  deformed  child  with 
a  deeper  affection  than  she  feels  for 
her  other  children,  who  are  fair,  and 
sound  of  limb,  did  the  Godolphins  feel 
pride  in  their  inheritance  because  it 
was  ugly.  But  the  grounds  around 
it  were  beautiful,  and  the  landscape, 
so  much  of  it  as  could  be  seen  from 
that  unelevated  spot,  most  fair  to 
look  upon.  A  full  view  might  be 
obtained  from  the  rooms  in  the  turret, 
though  it  was  somewhat  of  a  mount 
to  get  to  them.  Dark  groves,  and 
bright,  undulating  lawns,  shady  spots 
where  the  water  rippled,  pleasant  to 
bask  in  on  a  summer's  day,  sunny 
parterres  of  gay  flowers,  scenting  the 
air;  charming,  indeed,  were  the  envi- 
rons of  Ashlydyat.  All,  save  one 
spot :  and  that  had  charms  also  for 
some  minds, — sombre  ones. 

In  one  part  of  the  grounds  there 
grew  a  vast  quantity  of  ash-trees, — 
and  it  was  supposed,  though  not 
known,  that  these  trees  may  origi- 
nally have  suggested  the  name,  Ash- 
lydyat,— as  they  most  certainly  had 


that  of  Prior's  Ash,  given  to  the 
village  by  the  monks.  As  the  village 
had  swollen  into  a  town,  the  ash-trees, 
growing  there,  were  cleared  away  as 
necessity  required  ;  but  the  town  was 
surrounded  with  them  still. 

Opposite  to  the  ash-trees  on  the 
estate  of  Ashlydyat  there  extended  a 
waste  plain,  totally  out  of  keeping 
with  the  high  cultivation  around.  It 
looked  like  a  piece  of  rude  common. 
Bushes  of  furze,  broom,  and  other 
stunted  shrubs  grew  upon  it,  none  of 
them  rising  above  the  height  of  a 
two-year-old  child.  The  description 
given  by  Charlotte  Pain  to  George 
Godolphin  was  not  an  inapt  one, — 
that  the  place,  with  these  stunted 
bushes  on  it,  looked,  in  the  moonlight, 
not  unlike  a  graveyard.  At  the  ex- 
tremity, opposite  to  the  ash-trees, 
there  rose  a  high  archway,  a  bridge 
built  of  grey  stone.  It  appeared  to 
have  formed  part  of  an  ancient  fortifi- 
cation, but  there  was  no  trace  of  water 
having  run  underneath  it.  Beyond 
the  archway,  was  a  low,  round  build- 
ing, like  an  isolated  windmill  without 
sails.  It  was  built  of  grey  stone  also, 
and  was  called  the  belfry :  though 
there  were  as  little  signs  of  bells  ever 
having  been  in  it,  as  there  was  of 
water  beneath  the  bridge.  The  arch- 
way had  been  kept  from  decay ;  the 
belfry  had  not,  but  was  open  in  places 
to  the  heavens. 

Strange  to  say,  the  appellation  of 
this  waste  piece  of  land,  with  its  wild 
bushes,  was  the  "  Dark  Plain."  Why  ? 
The  plain  was  not  dark  :  it  was  not 
shaded  :  it  stood  out,  open  and  broad, 
in  the  full  glare  of  the  sunlight.  That 
certain  dark  tales  had  been  handed 
down  with  the  appellation,  is  true  : 
and  these  may  have  given  rise  to  the 
name.  Immediately  before  the  arch- 
way, for  some  considerable  space,  the 
ground  was  entirely  bare.  Not  a 
blade  of  grass,  not  a  shrub  grew  on  it. 
Or,  as  the  story  went,  would  grow. 
It  was  on  this  spot  that  the  appear- 
ance, the  shadow,  as  mentioned  by 
Charlotte  Pain,  would  be  sometimes 
seen.  Whence  the  shadow  came, 
whether  it  was   ghostly  or  earthly, 


32 


THE      SHAHOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


whether  those,  learned  in  science  and 
philosophy,  could  account  for  it  by 
Nature's  laws,  whether  it  was  cast  by 
any  gaseous  vapor  arising  in  the 
moonbeams,  I  am  unable  to  say.  If 
you  ask  me  to  explain  it,  I  cannot;  if 
you  ask,  why  then  do  I  write  about 
it,  T  can  only  answer,  because  I  have 
eeen  it.  I  have  seen  it  with  my  own 
unprejudiced  eyes :  I  have  sat  and 
watched  it,  in  its  strange  stillness ;  I 
have  looked  about  and  around  it,  low 
down,  up  high,  for  some  substance, 
ever  so  infinitesimal,  that  might  cast 
its  shade  and  enable  me  to  account 
for  it ;  and  I  have  looked  in  vain. 
Had  the  moon  been  behind  the  arch- 
way, instead  of  behind  me,  that  might 
have  furnished  a  loophole  of  explana- 
tion ;  a  very  poor  and  inefficient  loop- 
hole ;  a  curious  one  also ;  for  how 
can  an  archway  in  the  substance  be  a 
bier  and  two  mourners  in  its  shadow  ? 
but,  still,  better  than  none. 

No  ;  there  was  nothing  wdiatever, 
so  far  as  human  eyes — and  I  can  tell 
you  that  keen  ones  and  skeptical  ones 
have  looked  at  it — to  cast  the  shade, 
or  to  account  for  it.  There  as  you 
sat  and  watched,  stretched  out  the 
plain  in  the  moonlight,  with  its  low, 
tomb-like  bushes,  its  clear  space  of 
bare  land,  with  the  archway  rising 
behind.  But,  on  the  spot  of  bare 
land,  before  the  archway,  would  rise 
the  shadow  ;  not  looking  as  if  it  were 
a  shadow  cast  upon  the  ground,  but  a 
palpable  fact :  as  if  a  bier,  with  its 
two  bending  mourners,  actually  stood 
there  in  the  substance.  I  say  that  I 
cannot  explain  it,  or  attempt  to  ex- 
plain it ;  but  I  do  say  that  there  it 
was  to  be  seen.  Not  often  :  some- 
times not  for  years  together.  It  was 
called  the  Shadow  of  Ashlydyat :  and 
superstition  told  that  its  appearance 
foreshadowed  the  approach  of  calamity, 
whether  of  death  or  other  evil,  to  the 
Godolphins.  The  greater  the  evil 
that  was  coming  upon  them,  the 
plainer  and  more  distinct  would  be 
the  appearance  of  the  shadow, — the 
longer  the  space  of  time  that  it  would 
be  observed.  Rumor  went,  that  once, 
on  the  approach  of  some  terrible  mis- 


fortune, it  had  been  seen  for  months 
and  months  previously,  whenever  the 
moon  was  sufficiently  bright.  The 
Godolphins  did  not  care  to  have  the 
subject  mentioned  to  them  ;  in  their 
skeptical  atheism,  they  (some  of  them, 
at  least)  treated  it  with  ridicule,  or 
else  with  silence.  But,  like  disbe- 
lievers of  a  different  sort,  the  atheism 
was  more  in  profession  than  in  heart. 
The  Godolphins,  in  their  inmost  soul, 
could  cower  at  the  appearance  of  that 
shadowed  bier  ;  as  those  others  have 
been  known  to  cower,  in  their  loud 
anguish,  at  the  approach  of  the  shadow 
of  death. 

This  was  not  all  the  superstition 
attaching  to  Ashlydyat :  but  you  will 
probably  deem  this  quite  enough  for 
the  present.  And  we  have  to  return 
to  Mrs.  Godolphin. 

Five  years  before  the  present  time, 
when  pretty  Cecil  was  in  her  fifteenth 
year,  and  most  needed  the  guidance 
of  a  mother,  Mrs.  Godolphin  died. 
Her  illness  had  been  of  a  lingering 
nature  ;  little  of  hope  in  it  from  the 
first.  It  was  towards  the  latter  period 
of  her  illness  that  what  had  been 
regarded  by  four-fifths  of  Prior's  Ash 
as  ah  absurd  child's  tale,  a  super- 
stition unworthy  the  notice  of  the 
present-day  men  and  women,  grew  to 
be  talked  of  in  whispers,  as  something 
"strange."  For  three  months  ante- 
cedent to  the  death  of  Mrs.  Godolphin, 
the  Shadow  of  Ashlydyat  was  to  be 
seen  every  light  night,  and  all  Pryor's 
Ash  flocked  up  to  look  at  it.  That 
they  went,  is  of  no  consequence  ;  they 
had  their  walk  and  their  gaze  for 
their  pains  :  but  that  Mrs:  Godolphin 
should  have  been  told  of  it,  was.  She 
was  in  the  grounds  alone  one  balmy 
moonlight  night,  later  than  she  ought 
to  have  been,  and  she  discerned  people 
walking  in  them,  making  for  the  ash- 
trees. 

"What  can  those  people  be  doing 
here  ?"  she  exclaimed  to  one  of  her 
servants,  who  was  returning  to  Ashly- 
dyat from  executing  an  errand  in  the 
town. 

"  It  is  to  see  the  shadow,  ma'am," 
whispered  the  girl,  in  answer,  with 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASI1LYDYAT. 


33 


more  of  straightforward  truth  than 
prudence. 

Mrs.  Godolphin  paused.  "  The 
shadow!"  she  uttered.  "Is  the  sha- 
dow to  be  seen  ?" 

"  It  has  been  there  ever  since  last 
moon,  ma'am.  It  never  was  so  plain, 
they  say." 

Mrs.  Godolphin  waited  her  oppor- 
tunity, and,  when  the  intruders  had 
dispersed,  proceeded  to  the  ash-trees. 
It  is  as  well  to  observe  that  these 
ash-trees,  and  also  the  Dark  Plain, 
though  very  near  to  the  house,  were 
not  in  the  more  private  portion  of  the 
grounds. 

Mrs.  Godolphin  proceeded  to  the 
ash-trees.  An  hour  afterwards,  her 
absence  from  the  house  was  discovered, 
and  they  went  out  to  search.  It  was 
her  husband  who  found  her.  She 
pointed  to  the  shadow,  and  spoke. 

"  You  will  believe  that  my  death  is 
coming  on  quickly  now,  George. "  But 
Mr.  Godolphin  turned  it  off  with  an 
attempt  at  joke,  and  told  her  she  was 
old  enough  to  know  better. 

Mrs.  Godolphin  died.  Two  years 
subsequently,  Mr.  Godolphin  came  in 
contact  with  a  wealthy  young  widow ; 
young,  as  compared  with  himself: 
Mrs.  Campbell.  He  met  her  in  Scot- 
land, at  the  residence  of  his  first  wife's 
friends.  She  was  English  born,  but 
her  husband  had  been  Scotch.  Mr. 
Godolphin  married  her,  and  brought 
her  to  Ashlydyat.  The  step  did  not 
give  pleasure  to  his  children.  When 
sons  and  daughters  are  of  the  age 
•that  the  Godolphins  were,  a  new  wife, 
brought  home  to  rule,  rarely  does  give 
pleasure  to  the  first  family.  Things 
did  not  go  on  very  comfortably :  there 
were  faults  on  each  side, — on  that  of 
Mrs.  Godolphin,  and  on  that  of  her 
step-daughters.  After  a  while,  a 
'change  was  made.  Thomas  Godol- 
phin and  his  sisters  went  to  reside  in 
the  house  attached  to  the  bank, — a 
handsome  modern  residence,  hitherto 
occupied  by  Mr.  Crosse.  "  You  had 
better  come  here,"  that  gentleman  had 
said  to  them  :  he  was  no  stranger  to 
the  unpleasantness  at  Ashlydyat.  "  I 
will  take  up  my  abode  in  the  country," 
2 


he  continued.  "  I  would  prefer  to  do 
so.  I  am  getting  to  feel  older  than  I 
did  twenty  years  ago,  and  country  air 
may  renovate  me."  The  arrangement 
was  carried  out.  Thomas  Godolphin 
and  his  three  sisters  entered  upon 
their  residence  in  Prior's  Ash  :  Janet 
acting  as  mistress  of  the  house,  and 
as  chaperone  to  her  sisters.  She  was 
then  past  thirty :  a  sad,  thoughtful 
woman,  Avho  lived  much  in  the  in- 
ward life. 

Just  about  the  time  of  this  change, 
certain  doings  of  local  and  public  im- 
portance were  enacted  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, in  which  Mr.  Godolphin  took 
a  prominent  share.  There  ensued  a 
proposal  to  knight  him.  He  started 
from  it  with  aversion.  His  family 
started  also  :  they  and  he  alike  des- 
pised these  mushroom  honors.  Not 
so  Mrs.  Godolphin.  From  the  mo- 
ment that  the  first  word  of  the  plan 
was  breathed  to  her,  she  determined 
that  it  should  be  carried  out ;  for  the 
appellation,  my  lady,  was  as  very  in- 
cense in  her  ears.  In  vain  Mr.  Godol- 
phin strove  to  argue  with  her :  her 
influence  was  in  the  ascendant,  and 
he  lay  under  the  spell.  At  length  ho 
yielded  ;  and,  though  hot  war  waged 
in  his  heart,  he  bent  his  haughty  knee 
at  the  court  of  St.  James's,  and  rose 
up  Sir  George. 

"After  a  storm  comes  a  calm."  A 
proverb  pleasant  to  remember  in  some 
of  the  sharp  storms  of  life.  Mrs.  Godol- 
phin had  carried  her  point,  it  being 
too  many  for  her  step-daughters;  she 
had  triumphed  over  opposition  and 
become  my  lady ;  and  now  she  set- 
tled down  in  calmness  at  Ashtydyat. 
But  she  grew  dissatisfied.  She  was 
a  woman  who  had  no  resources  within 
herself,  who  lived  but  in  excitement,  and 
Ashlydyat's  quietness  overwhelmed 
her  with  ennui.  She  did  not  join  in 
the  love  of  the  Godolphins  for  Ash- 
lydyat. Mr.  Godolphin,  ere  he  had 
brought  her  home  to  it,  a  bride,  had 
spoken  so  warmly  of  the  place,  in  his 
attachment  to  it,  that  she  had  be- 
lieved she  was  about  to  step  into 
some  modern  paradise :  instead  of 
which,  she  found,  as  she  expressed  it, 


u 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT. 


a  "  cranky  old  house,  full  of  nothing 
but  passages. "  The  dislike  she  formed 
for  it,  in  that  early  moment,  never 
was  overcome. 

She  would  beguile  her  husband  to 
her  own  pretty  place  in  Berwickshire ; 
and,  just  at  first,  he  was  willing  to  be 
beguiled :  but  after  he  became  Sir 
George  (not  that  the  title  had  any 
thing  to  do  with  it)  public  local  busi- 
ness grew  upon  him,  and  he  found  it 
inconvenient  to  quit  Ashlydyat.  He 
explained  this  to  Lady  Godolphin  : 
and  said  their  sojourn  in  Scotland 
must  be  confined  to  an  autumn  visit. 
So  she  perforce  dragged  out  her  days 
at  Ashlydyat,  idle  and  listless. 

We  warn  our  children  that  idleness 
is  the  root  of  all  evil ;  that  it  will  in- 
fallibly lead  into  mischief  any  who  in- 
dulge in  it.  It  so  led  Lady  Godolphin. 
One  day,  as  she  was  looking  from  her 
drawing-room  windows,  wishing  all 
sorts  Of  things — that  she  lived  in  her 
pleasant  home  in  Berwickshire  ;  that 
she  could  live  amidst  the  gayeties  of 
London ;  that  Ashlydyat  was  not 
such  a  horrid  old  place  ;  that  it  was 
more  modern  and  less  ugly ;  that  its 
reception-rooms  wrere  of  lofty  height, 
and  garnished  with  gilding  and  glit- 
ter, instead  of  being  low,  gloomy,  and 
g-rim ;  that  it  was  situated  on  an  emi- 
nence, instead  of  a  flat,  so  that  a  bet- 
ter view  of  the  lovely  scenery  around 
might  be  obtained.  On  that  gentle  rise, 
opposite,  for  instance — what  would  be 
more  enchanting  than  to  enjoy  a  con- 
stant view  from  that  ?  If  Ashlydyat 
could  be  transported  there,  like  they 
carry  out  wooden  houses  to  set  up 
abroad ;  or,  if  only  that  one  room, 
she  then  stood  in,  could,  with  its  win- 
dows  

Lady  Godolphin's  thoughts  arrested 
themselves  here.  An  idea  had  flashed 
over  her.  Why  should  she  not  build 
a  pretty  summer-house  on  that  hill ; 
a  pavilion  ?  The  Countess  of  Cave- 
more,  in  this  very  county,  had  done 
such  a  thing  :  had  built  a  pavilion  on 
a  kill  within  view  of  the  windows  of 
Cavemore  House,  and  had  called  it 
"  Lady  Cavemore's  Folly."  But  the 
previous  wreek  she,  Lady  Godolphin, 


in  driving  by  it,  had  thought  what  a 
pretty  place  it  looked  ;  what  a  charm- 
ing prospect  must  be  obtained  from 
it.    Why  should  she  not  do  the  same  ? 

The  idea  grew  into  shape  and  form. 
It  would  not  leave  her  again.  She 
had  plenty  of  money  of  her  own,  and 
she  would  work  out  her  "  Folly"  to 
the  very  top  of  its  bent. 

To  the  top  of  its  bent,  indeed !  None 
can  tell  what  a  thing  will  grow  into 
when  it  is  first  begun.  Lady  Godol- 
phin made  known  her  project  to  Sir 
George,  who,  though  he  saw  no  par- 
ticular need  for  the  work,  did  not  ob- 
ject to  it :  if  Lady  Godolphin  chose 
to  spend  money  in  that  way,  she 
might.  So  it  was  put  in  hand.  Archi- 
tects, builders,  decorators  were  called 
together ;  and  the  Folly  was  planned 
out  and  begun.  Lady  Godolphin  had 
done  with  ennui  now  :  she  found  em- 
ployment for  her  days,  in  watching 
over  the  progress  of  the  pavilion. 

It  is  said  that  the  consummation  of 
our  schemes  generally  brings  its  share 
of  disappointment.  It  did  so  in  this 
instance  to  Lady  Godolphin.  The 
Folly  turned  out  to  be  a  really  pretty 
place ;  the  views  from  its  windows 
magnificent;  and  Lady  Godolphin 
was  as  enchanted  as  a  child  is  with  a 
new  toy.  The  disappointment  arose 
from  the  fact  that  she  could  not  make 
the  Folly  her  home.  After  spending 
a  morning  in  it,  or  an  evening,  sho 
must  quit  it  to  return  to  that  grey 
Ashlydyat, — the  only  eyesore  to  be 
seen,  when  looking  from  the  Folly's 
windows.  If  a  day  turned  out  wet, 
she  could  not  walk  to  the  Folly  ;  if 
she  was  expecting  visitors,  she  must 
stay  at  home  to  receive  them  ;  if  Sir 
George  felt  ill,— and  his  health  was 
then  beginning  to  suffer, — she  could 
not  quit  him  for  her  darling  Folly. 
It  was  darling  because  it  was  new; 
in  six-months'  time,  Lady  Godolphin 
would  have  grown  tired  of  it ;  have 
rarely  entered  it :  but,  in  her  present 
mood,  it  was  all-in-all. 

Slowly  she  formed  the  resolution  to 
enlarge  the  Folly — slowly  for  her,  for 
she  deliberated  upon  it  two  whole 
days.     She  would  add  "  a  reception- 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


35 


room  or  two,"  "  a  bed-room  or  two," 
"a  kitchen,"  so  that  she  might  be 
enabled,  when  she  chose,  to  take  up 
her  abode  in  it  for  a  week.  And  these 
additions  were  begun. 

But  they  did  not  end, — did  not  end 
as  she  had  intended  them.  As  the 
Folly  grew,  so  grew  the  ideas  of  Lady 
Godolphin  :  there  must  be  a  suite  of 
reception-rooms,  there  must  be  several 
bed-rooms,  there  must  be  domestic 
offices  in  proportion.  Sir  George  told 
her  that  she  would  spend  a  fortune  ; 
my  lady  answered  that,  at  any  rate, 
she  should  have  something  to  show 
for  the  outlay. 

At  length  it  was  completed  ;  and 
Lady  Godolphin's  Folly — for  it  re- 
tained its  appellation — stood  out  to 
the  view  of  Poor's  Ash,  which  it 
overlooked  ;  to  the  view  of  Ashly- 
dyat ;  to  the  view  of  the  country 
generally,  as  a  fair,  moderate-sized, 
attractive  residence,  built  in  the  villa 
style,  its  white  walls  dazzling  the  eye 
when  the  sun  shone  upon  them. 

"  We  will  reside  there,  and  let 
Ashlydyat,"  said  Lady  Godolphin  to 
her  husband. 

"  Reside  at  the  Folly  !  Leave  Ash- 
lydyat !"  he  repeated,  in  consternation. 
"It  could  not  be." 

"It  will  be,"  she  answered,  with  a 
half  self-willed,  half-caressing  laugh. 
"  Why  could  it  not  be  ?" 

Sir  George  fell  into  a  reverie.  He 
admired  the  modern  conveniences  of 
the  Folly,  greatly  admired  the  lovely 
scenery,  which,  look  from  what  room 
of  it  he  would,  charmed  his  eye.  But 
for  one  thing,  he  had  been  content  to 
do  as  she  wished,  and  go  to  live  there. 
That  one  thing — what  was  it  ?  Hear 
the  low-breathed,  reluctant  words  he 
is  beginning  to  say  to  Lady  Go- 
dolphin : 

"  There  is  an  old  tradition  in  our 
family, — a  superstition,  I  suppose  you 
will  call  it, — that  if  the  Godolphins 
quit  Ashlydyat,  their  ruin  is  near." 

Lady  Godolphin  stared  at  him  in 
amazement.  Nothing  had  surprised 
her  on  her  arrival  at  Ashlydyat,  like 
the  stories  of  marvel  Thich  she  had 


been  obliged  to  hear.  Sir  George  had 
cast  ridicule  to  them,  if  alluded  to  in 
his  presence ;  therefore,  when  the 
above  words  dropped  from  him,  she 
could  only  wonder.  You  might 
search  a  town  through,  and  not  find 
one  less  prone  to  superstition  than 
was  Lady  Godolphin  :  in  all  that  per- 
tained to  it,  she  was  a  very  heathen. 
Sir  George  hastened  to  explain  away 
his  words. 

"  The  tradition  is  nothing,  and  I 
regard  it  as  nothing.  That  such  a 
one  has  been  handed  down,  is  certain, 
and  it  may  have  given  rise  to  the 
reluctance,  which  the  early  Godolphins 
entertained,  to  quit  Ashlydyat.  But 
that  is  not  our  reason  :  in  remaining 
in  it  we  only  obey  a  father's  behest. 
You  are  aware  that  Ashlydyat  is  not 
entailed.  It  is  bequeathed  by  will 
from  father  to  son  ;  and,  to  the  be- 
quest in  each  will,  so  far  as  I  have 
back  cognizance  of  the  wills,  there 
has  always  been  appended  a  clause — 
a  request — I  should  best  say  an  en- 
joinder- — never  to  quit  Ashlydyat. 
'  When  once  you  shall  have  come  into 
Ashlydyat 's  possession,  guard  it  as 
your  stronghold  :  resign  it  neither  to 
your  heir  nor  to  a  stranger  :  remain 
in  it  until  death  shall  take  you."  It 
was  inserted  in  my  father's  will,  by 
which  Ashlydyat  became  mine  :  it  is 
inserted  in  mine,  which  devises  the 
estate  to  Thomas." 

"  If  ever  I  heard  so  absurd  a  story  !* 
uttered  Lady  Godolphin,  in  her  pretty, 
childish  manner.  "  Do  I  understand 
you  to  say  that,  if  you  left  Ashlydyat 
to  take  up  your  abode  elsewhere,  it 
would  be  no  longer  yours  ?" 

"  Not  that,  not  that,"  returned  Sir 
George.  "Ashlydyat  is  mine  until 
my  death,  and  no  power  can  take  it 
from  me.  But,  a  reluctance  to  quit 
Ashlydyat  has  always  clung  to  the 
Godolphins  :  in  fact,  we  have  looked 
up  to  it  as  a  step  impossible  to  be 
taken." 

"What  a  state  of  thraldom  to  live 
in  !" 

"  Pardon  me.  We  love  Ashlydyat. 
To  remain  in  it,  is  pleasant ;  to  quit 


36 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


it,  would  be  pain.  I  speak  of  the 
Godolphins  in  general ;  of  those  who 
have  preceded  me." 

"  I  understand  now,"  said  Lady 
Godolphin,  resentfully.  "  You  hold  a 
superstition  that  if  you  were  to  quit 
Ashlydyat  for  the  Folly,  some  dread- 
ful doom  of  ruin  would  overtake  you. 
Sir  George,  I  thought  we  lived  in  the 
nineteenth  century." 

A  passing  flush  rose  to  the  face  of 
Sir  George  Godolphin.  To  be  sus- 
pected of  leaning  to  these  superstitions 
chafed  his  mind  unbearably  ;  he  had 
almost  rather  be  accused  of  dishonor  ; 
not  to  his  own  heart  would  he  admit 
that  they  might  have  weight  with 
him.  "Ashlydyat  is  our  homestead," 
he  said.  "And  when  a  man  has  a 
homestead,  he  likes  to  live  and  die  in 
it." 

"You  cannot  think  Ashlydyat  so 
desirable  a  residence  as  the  Folly. 
We  must  remove  to  the  Folly,  Sir 
George  ;  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  it. 
Let  Thomas  and  his  sisters  come  back 
to  Ashlydyat." 

"  They  would  not  come." 

"  Not  come  !  They  were  inwardly 
rebellious  enough  at  having  to  quit 
it." 

"  I  am  sure  that  Thomas  would  not 
take  up  his  residence  here,  as  Ashly- 
dyat's  master,  during  my  lifetime. 
Another  thing :  we  should  not  be 
justified  in  keeping  up  two  expensive 
establishments  outside  the  town,  leav- 
ing the  house  at  the  bank  to  lie  idle. 
People  might  lose  confidence,  if  they 
saw  us  launch  forth  into  extrava- 
gance." 

"  Oh,  indeed !  What  did  they 
think  of  the  expense  launched  upon 
the  Folly  ?"  mockingly  smiled  my 
lady. 

"  They  know  it  is  your  money 
which  has  built  that :  not  mine." 

"  If  Thomas  and  the  rest  came  to 
Ashlydyat,  you  might  let  the  house 
attached  to  the  bank." 

"  It  would  take  a  great  deal  more 
money  to  keep  up  Ashlydyat  than  it 
does  the  house  at  the  bank.  The 
public  might  lose  confidence   in   us, 


I  say.     Besides,  no  one  but  a  partner 
could  be  allowed  to  live  at  the  bank." 

"  You  seem  to  find  a  combating 
answer  to  all  my  propositions,"  said 
Lady  Godolphin,  in  her  softest  and 
sweetest,  and  least  true  tone;  "but 
I  warn  you,  Sir  George,  that  I  shall 
win  you  over  to  my  way  of  thinking 
before  the  paper  shall  be  dry  on  the 
Folly's  walls.  If  Thomas  cannot,  or 
will  not,  live  at  Ashlvdyat,  you  must 
let  it," 

In  every  tittle  did  Lady  Godolphin 
carry  out  her  words.  Almost  before 
the  Folly's  embellishments  were  ma- 
tured to  receive  them,  Sir  George  was 
won  over  to  live  at  it :  and  Ashlydyat 
advertised  to  be  let,  Thomas  Godol- 
phin would  not  have  become  its  mas- 
ter, in  his  father's  lifetime,  had  Sir 
George  filled  its  rooms  with  gold  to 
bribe  him.  His  mother  had  contrived 
to  imbue  him  with  some  of  the  Ashly- 
dyat superstition, — to  which  she  had 
lived  a  slave, — and  Thomas  though, 
he  did  not  bow  down  to  it,  would  not 
brave  it.  If  ruin  was  to  come — as 
some  religiously  believed — when  a 
reigning  Godolphin  voluntarily  aban- 
doned Ashlydyat,  Thomas,  at  least, 
would  not  help  it  on  by  taking  part 
in  the  step.  So  Ashlydyat,  to  the 
intense  astonishment  of  Prior's  Ash, 
was  put  up  in  the  market  for  hire. 

It  was  taken  by  a  Mr.  Verrall :  a 
gentleman  from  London.  Prior's  Ash 
knew  nothing  of  him,  except  that  he 
was  fond  of  field-sports,  and  appeared 
to  be  a  moneyed  man:  but,  the  fart 
of  his  establishing  himself  at  Ashly- 
dyat, stamped  him,  in  their  estimation, 
as  one  worthy  to  be  courted.  His 
wife  was  a  pretty,  fascinating  woman  ; 
her  sister,  Miss  Pain,  was  beautiful  : 
their  entertainments  were  good,  their 
style  was  dashing,  and  they  grew 
into  high  fashion  in  the  neighborhood. 

But,  from  the  very  first  day  that  the 
step  was  mooted  of  Sir  George  Go- 
dolphin's  taking  up  his  residence  at 
the  Folly,  until  that  of  his  removal 
thither,  the  shadow  had  hovered  over 
the  dark  Plain  at  Ashlydyat. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


37 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    DARK   PLAIN   IN   THE   MOONLIGHT. 

The  beams  of  the  setting  sun 
streamed  into  the  dining-room  at 
Lady  Godolphin's  Folly.  A  room  of 
fine  proportions  ;  not  dull  and  heavy, 
as  it  is  much  the  custom  for  dining- 
rooms  to  be,  but  light  and  graceful  as 
could  be  wished. 

Sir  George  Godolphin,  with  his  fine 
old  beauty,    sat   at   one   end   of  the 
table  ;  Lady  Godolphin,  good-looking 
also  in  her  peculiar  style,  was  opposite 
to  him.     She  wore  a  white  dress,  its 
make  remarkably  young,  and  her  hair 
fell  in  ringlets,  young  also.      On  her 
right   hand   sat   Thomas    Godolphin, 
courteous  and  calm  as  he  ever  was ; 
on  her  left  hand  was  Bessy,  whom 
you  have  already  seen.     On  the  right 
of  Sir  George    sat  Maria  Hastings, 
singularly  attractive  in  her  quiet  love- 
liness,  in    her   white-spotted   muslin 
dress  with  its  white  ribbons.     On  his 
left,  sat  his  eldest  daughter,   Janet. 
Quiet  in  manner,  plain  in  features,  as 
was  Thomas,  her  eyes  were  yet  won- 
derful to  behold.     Not  altogether  for 
their  beauty,  but  for  the  power  they 
appeared    to    contain   of    seeing    all 
things.     Large,  reflective,  strangely- 
deep   eyes,    grey,  with   a   circlet   of 
darker  grey  round  them.     When  they 
were  cast  upon  you,  it  was  not  at  you 
they  looked,  but  at  what  was  within 
you — at  your  mind,  your  thoughts  ; 
at  least,  such  was  the  impression  they 
conveyed.     She  and  Bessy  were  dress- 
ed alike,  in  grey,  watered  silk.     Cecil 
sat   between   Janet    and   Thomas,    a 
charming  girl,   with  blue  ribbons  in 
her   hair.      George   sat   between   his 
sister    Bessy   and    Maria    Hastings. 
Thomas  was  attired  much  as  he  had 
been   in   the   morning :    George    had 
exchanged     his    hunting-clothes     for 
dinner  dress. 

Lady  Godolphin  was  speaking  of 
her  visit  to  Scotland.  Sir  George's 
illness  had  caused  it  to  be  put  off,  or 
they  would  have  gone  in  August :  it 
was  proposed  to  proceed  thither  now. 
"  I  have  written  finally  to  say  that  we  , 


shall  be  there  on  Tuesday,"  she  ob- 
served. 

"  Will  papa  be  able  to  make  the 
journey  in  one  day  ?"  asked  Bessy. 

"  He  says  he  is  quite  strong  enough 
now  to  do  so,"  replied  Lady  Godol- 
phin. "  But  I  could  not  think  of  his 
running  any  risk,  so  we  shall  stay  ^ 
night  upon  the  road.  Janet,  will  you 
believe  that  I  had  a  battle  with  Mr. 
Hastings  to-day  ?" 

Janet  turned  her  strange  eyes  on 
Lady  Godolphin.  "  Had  you,  ma- 
dam ?" 

"  I  consider  Mr.  Hastings  the  most 
unreasonable,  changeable  man  I  ever 
met  with,"  complained  Lady  Godol- 
phin. "  But,  clergymen  are  apt  to  be 
so.  So  obstinate,  if  they  take  up  a 
thing  !  When  Maria  was  invited  to 
accompany  us  in  August,  Mr.  Has- 
tings made  not  a  single  demur ; 
neither  he  nor  Mrs.  Hastings  :  they 
got  her, — oh,  all  sorts  of  new  things 
for  the  visit.  New  dresses  and  bon- 
nets ;  and, — a  new  cloak,  was  it  not, 
Maria  ?" 

Maria  smiled.  "  Yes,  Lady  Go- 
dolphin." 

"People  who  have  never  been  in 
Scotland  acquire  the  notion  that  in 
temperature  it  may  be  matched  with 
the  North  Pole,  so  a  warm  cloak  was 
provided  for  Maria  for  an  August 
visit !  I  called  at  the  rectory  to-day 
with  Maria,  after  the  hounds  had 
thrown  off,  to  tell  them  that  we  should 
depart  next  week,  and  Mi\  Hastings 
wanted  to  withdraw  his  consent  to 
her  going.  '  Too  late  in  the  season 
now,'  he  urged  ;  or  some  such  plea. 
I  told  him  she  should  not  get  frozen  ; 
that  we  would  be  back  before  the  cold 
set  in." 

Maria  lifted  her  sweet  face,  an 
earnest  look  upon  it.  "  It  was  not 
the  cold  papa  thought  of,  Lady  Go- 
dolphin :  he  knows  I  am  more  hardy 
than  to  fear  that.  But,  as  the  winter 
approaches,  there  is  so  much  moi*e  to 
do,  both  at  home  and  abroad.  Mam- 
ma has  to  be  out  a  great  deal  :  and 
this  will  be  a  heavy  winter  with  the 
poor,  after  all  the  sickness." 

"The    sickness    has    passed,"   ex- 


38 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


claimed  Lady  Godolphin,  in  a  tone  so 
sharp,  so  eager,  as  to  give  rise  to  a 
suspicion  that  she  might  fear,  or  had 
feared,  the  sickness  for  herself. 

"  Nearly  so,"  assented  Miss  Godol- 
phin. "There  have  been  no  fresh 
cases  since " 

"  Janet,  if  you  talk  of  '  fresh  cases  ' 
at  my  table,  I  shall  retire  from  it," 
interrupted  Lady  Godolphin,  in  agita- 
tion. "  Is  fever  a  pleasant  or  fitting 
topic  of  conversation,  pray  ?" 

Janet  Godolphin  bowed  her  head. 
"I  did  not  forget  your  fears,  madam. 
I  supposed,  however,  that,  now  that 
the  sickness  is  subsiding,  your  objec- 
tion to  hearing  it  spoken  of  might 
have  subsided  also." 

"And  how  did  the  controversy  with 
Mr.  Hastings  end  ?"  interposed  Bessy, 
to  turn  the  topic.     "  Is  Maria  to  go  ?" 

"  Of  course  she  is  to  go,"  said  Lady 
Godolphin,  with  a  quiet  little  laugh 
of  power,  as  she  recovered  her  good 
humor.  "When  I  wish  a  thing,  I 
generally  carry  my  point.  I  would 
not  stir  from  his  room  until  he  gave 
his  consent,  and  he  had  his  sermon  on 
the  table,  and  was  no  doubt  wishing 
me  at  the  antipodes.  He  thought 
Maria  had  already  paid  me  a  visit 
long  enough  for  Sir  George  to  have 
tired  of  her,  he  said.  I  told  him 
that  was  not  his  business  :  and  that 
whether  Sir  George  or  anybody  else 
was  tired  of  her,  I  should  take  her  to 
Scotland.     So  he  yielded." 

Maria  Hastings  glanced  timidly  at 
Sir  George.  He  saw  the  look.  "Not 
tired  of  you  yet,  are  we,  Miss  Has- 
tings ?"  he  said,  with,  Maria  fancied, 
more  gallantry  than  warmth.  But 
fancy,  with  Maria,  sometimes  went  a 
great  way. 

"  It  would  have  been  a  disappoint- 
ment to  Maria,"  pursued  Lady  Go- 
dolphin.    "  Would  it  not,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  her  face 
flushing. 

"  And  so  very  dull  for  Charlotte 
Pain.  I  expressly  told  her,  when  I 
invited  her,  that  Maria  Hastings 
would  be  of  the  party." 

"  Charlotte  Pain  !"  uttered  Bessy 
Godolphin,  in  her   quick   fashion,  "is 


she  going  with  you  ?  What  in  the 
world  is  that  for  ?" 

"  I  invited  her,  I  say,"  said  Lady 
Godolphin,  with  a  hard  look  on  her 
bloom-tinted  face  ;  a  look  _  that  it 
always  wore  when  her  wishes  were 
questioned,  her  actions  reflected  on. 
None  brooked  interference  less  than 
Lady  Godolphin. 

Sir  George  bent  his  head  slightly 
towards  his  wife.  "  My  dear,  I  con- 
sider that  Charlotte  Pain  invited  her- 
self. She  fished  pretty  strongly  for 
the  invitation,  and  you  fell  into  the 
snare." 

"  Snare  !  It  is  an  honor  and  a 
pleasure  that  she  should  come  with 
us.    What  do  you  mean,  Sir  George  ?" 

"  An  honor,  if  you  like  to  call  it 
such  ;  I  am  sure  it  will  be  a  pleasure," 
replied  Sir  George.  "A  most  at- 
tractive young  woman  is  Charlotte 
Pain  :  though  she  did  angle  for  the 
invitation.  George,  take  care  how 
you  play  your  cards." 

"  What  cards,  sir  ?" 

"Look  at  that  graceless  George; 
at  his  eye  of  conscious  vanity  !"  ex- 
claimed Sir  George  to  the  table  gen- 
erally. "  He  knows  who  it  is  that 
makes  the  attraction  here  to  Charlotte 
Pain.  Wear  her  if  you  can  win  her, 
my  boy." 

"  Would  Charlotte  Pain  be  one 
worthy  to  be  won  by  George  Godol- 
phin ?"  quietly  spoke  Janet. 

"  Rumor  says  she  has  thirty  thou- 
sand charms,"  nodded  Sir  George. 

"  I  never  would  marry  for  money, 
if  I  were  George,"  cried  Cecil,  indig- 
nantly. "  And,  papa,  I  do  not  see  so 
much  beauty  in  Charlotte  Pain.  I  do 
not  like  her  style." 

"  Cecil,  did  you  ever  know  one 
pretty  girl  like  the  '  style '  of  another  ?" 
asked  George. 

"  Nonsense  !  But,  George,  you  are 
never  going  to  fall  in  love  with  Char- 
lotte Pain  !     Are  you  ?" 

"As  if  I  should  tell  tales  out  of 
school  !"  laughed  Mr.  George. 

"  Hid  she  ride  well  to-day,  George  ?" 
inquired  his  father. 

"  She  always  rides  well,  sir,"  re- 
plied George. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDi'AT. 


39 


"  I  wish  I  had  invited  her  to  din- 
ner !"  said  Lady  Godolphin. 

"  I  wish  you  had,"  assented  Sir 
George. 

Nothing  more  was  said  upon  the 
subject ;  the  conversation  fell  into 
other  channels.  But,  when  the  ladies 
had  withdrawn,  and  Sir  George  was 
alone  with  his  sons,  he  renewed  it. 

"  Mind,  George,  I  was  not  in  jest, 
when  speaking  of  Charlotte  Pain.  It 
is  getting  time  that  you  married." 

"  Need  a  man  think  of  marriage  on 
this  side  of  thirty,  sir?" 

"  Some  men  need  not  think  of  it  on 
this  side  forty  or  on  this  side  fifty,  un- 
less they  choose  :  your  brother  Thomas 
is  one,"  returned  Sir  George.  "  But 
they  are  those  who  know  how  to  sow 
their  wild  oats  without  it." 

"  I  shall  sow  mine  all  in  good  time," 
said  George, with  a  gay,  half-conscious 
laugh. 

"  I  wish  you  would  fix  the  time  and 
keep  it,  then,"  was  the  marked  re- 
joinder.  "  It  might  be  better  for  you. " 

"  Fix  the  time  for  my  marriage,  do 
you  mean,  sir  V 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  But,  I 
suppose  you  do  intend  to  marry  some 
time,  George  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  I  shall.  It  is  a  thing 
that  comes  to  most  of  us  as  a  matter 
of  course  ;  like  the  measles  or  vac- 
cination," spoke  irreverent  George. 
"  You  mentioned  Charlotte  Pain,  sir  : 
I  presume  you  have  no  urgent  wish 
that  my  choice  should  fall  upon  her  ?" 

"  If  I  had,  would  you  comply  with 
it?" 

George  raised  his  blue  eyes  to  his 
father.  "  I  have  never  thought  of 
Charlotte  Pain  as  a  wife." 

"  She  is  a  fine  girl,  a  wonderfully 
fine  girl ;  and  if,  as  is  rumored,  she 
has  a  large  fcutune,  you  might  go  far- 
ther and  fare  worse,"  remarked  Sir 
George.  "  If  you  don't  like  Char- 
lotte Pain,  find  out  somebody  else 
that  you  would  like.  Only,  take  care 
that  there's  money." 

"  Money  is  desirable  in  itself.  But 
it  does  not  invariably  bring  happiness, 
sir." 

"  I  never  heard  that  it  brought  un- 


happiness,  Master  George.  I  cannot 
have  you  both  marry  portionless 
women.  Thomas  has  chosen  one 
who  has  nothing  :  it  will  not  do  for 
you  to  follow  his  example.  The  world 
is  before  you  :  choose  wisely." 

"  If  we  choose  portionless  women, 
we  are  not  portionless  ourselves." 

"  We  have  a  credit  to  keep  up  be- 
fore the  public,  George.  It  stands 
high ;  it  deserves  to  stand  high ; 
I  hope  it  always  will.  But  I  do 
consider  it  necessary  that  one  of  you 
should  marry  a  fortune  ;  I  should 
have  been  glad  that  both  had  done  it. 
Take  the  hint,  George  :  and  never  ex- 
pect my  consent  to  your  making  an 
undesirable  match,  for  it  would  not  be 
given." 

"  But,  if  my  inclination  fixed  itself 
upon  one  who  has  no  money,  what 
then,  sir?"  asked  bold  George,  care- 
lessly. 

"  Sir  George  pushed  from  before 
him  a  dish  of  filberts,  so  hastily  as  to 
scatter  them  on  the  table.  It  proved 
to  his  sons,  who  knew  him  well,  that 
the  question  had  annoyed  him. 

"  Your  inclinations  are  as  yet  free, 
George :  I  say  the  world  is  before  you, 
and  you  may  choose  wisely.  If  you 
do  not  ;  if,  after  this  warning,  you 
suffer  your  choice  to  rest  where  it  is 
undesirable  that  it  should  rest,  you 
will  do  it  in  deliberate  defiance.  In 
that  case  I  should  disinherit  you  : 
partially,  if  not  wholly." 

Something  appeared  to  be  on  the 
tip  of  George's  tongue,  but  he  checked 
it,  and  there  ensued  a  pause. 

"  Thomas  is  to  be  allowed  to  follow 
his  choice,"  he  presently  said. 

"I  had  not  warned  Thomas  with 
regard  to  a  choice  ;  therefore  he  has 
been  guilty  of  no  disobedience.  It  is 
his  having  chosen  as  he  has,  that  re- 
minds me  to  caution  you.  Be  care- 
ful, my  boy." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  have  no  intention  of 
marrying  yet,  and  I  suppose  you  will 
not  disinherit  me  for  keeping  single," 
concluded  George,  good-humoredly. 
He  rose  to  leave  the  room  as  he  spoke, 
throwing  a  merry  glance  towards 
Thomas  as  he  did  so,  who  had  takea 


40 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


no  part  whatever  in  the  conversa- 
tion. 

The  twilight  of  the  evening  had 
passed,  but  the  moon  shone  bright  and 
clear,  rendering  the  night  nearly  as 
light  as  day.  Janet  Godolphin  stood 
on  the  lawn  with  Miss  Hastings,  when 
George  stepped  out  and  joined  them. 

"Moon-gazing,  Janet?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  go- 
ing on  to  the  ash-trees." 

George  paused  before  he  again 
spoke.    "Why  are  you  going  thither  ?" 

"  Because,"  whispered  Janet,  glan- 
cing uneasily  around,  "they  say  the 
shadow  is  there  again." 

George  himself  had  heard  that  it 
was  :  had  heard  it,  as  you  know,  from 
Charlotte  Pain.  But  he  chose  to 
make  mockery  of  his  sister's  words. 

"  Some  say  the  moon's  made  of 
green  cheese,"  quoth  he.  "  Who  told 
you  that  nonsense  ?" 

"  It  has  been  told  to  me,"  myste- 
riously returned  Janet.  "  Margery 
saw  it  last  night,  for  one." 

"  Margery  sees  double,  sometimes. 
Do  not  go,  Janet." 

Janet's  only  answer  was  to  put  the 
hood  of  her  cloak  over  her  head,  and 
walk  away.  Bessy  Godolphin  ran  up 
at  this  juncture. 

"  Is  Janet  going  to  the  ash-trees  ? 
She'll  turn  into  a  ghost  herself  some 
time,  believing  all  the  rubbish  Mar- 
gery chooses  to  dream  !  I  shall  go 
and  tell  her  so." 

Bessy  followed  in  the  wake  of  her  sis- 
ter.    George  turned  to  Miss  Hastings. 

"  Have  you  a  cloak  also,  Maria  ? 
Draw  it  round  you,  then,  and  let  us 
go  after  them." 

He  caught  her  to  him  with  a  fond 
gesture,  and  they  hastened  on.  Down 
from  the  eminence  where  rose  the 
Folly,  to  the  lower  ground  nearer 
Ashlydyat.  The  Dark  Plain  lay  to 
the  right,  and  as  they  struck  into  a 
narrow,  overhung  walk,  its  gloom 
contrasted  unpleasantly  with  the  late 
brightness.  Maria  Hastings  drew 
nearer  to  her  companion  with  an  in- 
voluntary shiver. 

"  Why  did  you  come  this  dark  way, 
George  ?" 


"  It  is  the  most  direct.  In  the  dark 
or  in  the  light  you  are  safe  with  me. 
Did  vou  notice  Sir  George's  joke  about 
Charlotte  Pain  ?" 

The  question  caused  her  heart  to 
beat  wildly.  "  Was  it  a  joke,"  she 
breathed. 

"  Of  course  it  was  a  joke.  But  he 
has  been  giving  me  a  lecture  upon — 
upon — " 

"  Upon  what  ?"  she  inquired,  help- 
ing out  his  hesitation. 

"  Upon  the  expediency  of  sowing 
my  wild  oats  and  settling  down  into 
a  respectable  man,"  laughed  George. 
"  I  promised  him  it  should  be  done 
some  time.  I  cannot  afford  it  just 
yet,  Maria,"  he  added,  his  tone  chang- 
ing  to  earnestness.  "But  I  did  not 
tell  him  that," 

Meanwhile,  Janet  Godolphin  had 
gained  the  ash-trees.  She  quietly 
glided  before  them  underneath  their 
shade  to  reach  the  bench.  It  was 
placed  quite  back,  quite  amidst  them, 
in  what  might  almost  be  called  an 
alcove  formed  by  the  trees.  Janet 
paused  ere  turning  in,  her  sight 
thrown  over  the  Dark  Plain. 

"  Heavens  and  earth,  how  you 
startled  me  !  Is  it  you,  Miss  Godol- 
phin ?" 

The  exclamation  came  from  Char- 
lotte Pain,  who  was  seated  there. 
Miss  Godolphin  was  startled  also : 
and  her  tone,  as  she  spoke,  betrayed 
considerable  vexation. 

"  You  here,  Miss  Pain  !  A  solitary 
spot,  is  it  not,  for  a  young  lady  to  be 
sitting  in  alone  at  night  ?" 

"  I  was  watching  for  that  strange 
appearance  which  you,  in  this  neigh- 
borhood, call  the  shadow,"  she  ex- 
plained.     "  I  saw  it  last  evening." 

"  Did  you  ?"  freezingly  replied  Ja- 
net Godolphin,  who  had  an  uncon- 
querable aversion  to  the  superstitious 
sign  being  seen  or  spoken  of  by  stran- 
gers. 

"  Well,  pray,  and  where's  the  shad- 
ow ?"  interrupted  Bessy  Godolphin, 
coming  up.  "I  see  nothing,  and  my 
eyes  are  as  good  as  yours,  Janet : 
better,  I  hope,  than  Margery's." 

"  I  do  not  see  it   to-night,"  said 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT. 


41 


Charlotte  Pain.  "  Here  are  more 
footsteps  !     Who  else  is  coming  ?" 

"  Did  you  ever  know  the  shadow 
come  when  it  was  watched  for  ?"  cried 
Janet  to  Bessy,  in  a  half-sad,  half- 
resentful  tone,  as  her  brother  and 
Maria  Hastings  approached.  "  Watch 
for  it  and  it  does  not  come.  It  never 
yet  struck  upon  the  sight  of  any  one 
but  it  struck  unexpectedly." 

"  As  it  did  upon  me  last  night," 
said  Charlotte  Pain.  "  It  was  a 
strange-looking  shadow :  but,  as  to 
its  being  supernatural,  the  very  sup- 
position of  it  is  ridiculous.  I  beg 
your  pardon  if  I  offend  your  preju- 
dices, Miss  Godolphin." 

"  Child  !  why  did  you  come  ?"  cried 
Janet  Godolphin  to  Maria. 

"  I  had  no  idea  you  did  not  wish 
me  to  come." 

"  Wish  !  It  is  not  that.  But  you 
are  little  more  than  a  child,  and  might 
be  spared  these  sights." 

There  appeared  to  be  no  particular 
sight  to  spare  anybody.  They  stood 
in  a  group,  gazing  eagerly.  The  Dark 
Plain  was  stretched  out  before  them, 
the  bare  patch  of  clear  ground,  the 
archway  behind ;  all  bright  in  the 
moonlight.  No  shadow  or  shade  was 
to  be  seen.  Charlotte  Pain  moved  to 
the  side  of  George  Godolphin. 

"  You  told  me  I  was  fanciful  this 
morning,  when  I  said  the  Dark  Plain 
put  me  in  mind  of  a  graveyard,"  she 
said  to  him  in  a  half-whisper.  "  See 
it  now  !  Those  low  scattered  bushes 
look  precisely  like  grave-mounds." 

"  But  we  know  them  to  be  bushes," 
returned  George. 

"  That  is  not  the  argument.  I  say 
they  look  like  it.  If  you  brought  a 
stranger  here  first  by  moonlight,  and 
asked  him  what  the  Plain  was,  he 
would  say  a  graveyard." 

"  Thus  it  has  ever  been  !"  mur- 
mured Janet  Godolphin  to  herself. 
"  At  the  first  coming  of  the  shadow  it 
will  be  here  capriciously  ;  visible  one 
night,  invisible  the  next :  betokening 
that  the  evil  is  not  here  yet,  that  it  is 
only  hovering !  You  are  sure  you 
saw  it,  Miss  Pain  ?" 

"  I   am   quite   sure   that   I  saw  a 


shadow,  bearing  a  strange  and  distinct 
form,  there,  in  front  of  the  archway. 
But  I  am  equally  sure  it  is  to  be  ac- 
counted for  by  natural  causes.  But 
that  my  eyes  tell  me  there  is  no  build- 
ing, or  sign  of  building,  above  the 
Dark  Plain,  I  should  say  it  was  cast 
from  thence.  Some  fairies,  possibly, 
may  be  holding  up  a  sheet  there,''  she 
carelessly  added,  "  playing  at  magic 
lantern  in  the  moonlight." 

"  Standing  in  the  air,"  sai*castically 
returned  Miss  Godolphin.  "Archime- 
des offered  to  move  the  world  with 
his  lever,  if  the  world  would  only  find 
him  a  place,  apart  from  itself,  to  stand 
on." 

"  Are  you  convinced,  Janet  ?" 
laughed  George. 

"  Of  what  ?" 

He  pointed  over  the  Plain.  "  That 
there  is  nothing  uncanny  to  be  seen 
to-night.  I'll  send  Margery  here  when 
I  go  back." 

"  I  am  convinced  of  one  thing — 
that  it  is  getting  uncommonly  damp," 
said  practical  Bessy.  "  I  never  stood 
under  these  ash-trees  in  an  evening 
yet,  let  the  atmosphere  be  ever  so 
cold  and  clear,  but  a  dampness  might 
be  felt.  I  wonder  if  it  is  in  the  na- 
ture of  ash-trees  to  exhale  damp  ? 
Maria,  the  rector  would  not  thank  us 
for  bringing  you  here." 

"  Is  Miss  Hastings  so  susceptible 
to  cold  ?"  asked  Charlotte  Pain. 

"  Not  more  so  than  other  people 
are,"  was  Maria's  answer. 

"  It  is  her  child-like,  delicate  ap- 
pearance, I  suppose,  that  makes  us 
fancy  it,"  laughed  Bessy  Godolphin. 
"  Come,  let  us  depart.  If  Lady  Godol- 
phin could  see  us  here,  she  would  go 
crazy :  she  says,  you  know,  that  damp 
brings  the  fever." 

They  made  a  simultaneous  move- 
ment. Their  road  lay  to  the  right ; 
Charlotte  Pain's  to  the  left.  "  I  envy 
you  four,"  she  said,  after  wishing 
them  good-night.  "  You  are  a  formi- 
dable body,  numerous  to  do  battle 
with  any  assailants  you  may  meet  in 
your  way,  fairies,  or  shadows,  or  fever, 
or  what  not.  I  must  encounter  them 
alone." 


42 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


"  Scarcely,"  replied  George  Godol- 
phin,  as  he  drew  her  arm  within  his, 
and  turned  with  her  in  the  direction 
of  Ashlydyat.    • 

Arrived  at  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly, 
the  Miss  Godolphins  passed  in-cloors; 
Maria  Hastings  lingei'ed  a  moment 
behind  them.  She  leaned  against  a 
white  pillar  of  the  terrace,  looking 
forth  on  the  lovely  night.  Not  alto- 
gether was  that  peaceful  scene  in  ac- 
cordance with  her  heart,  for,  in  that, 
warred  passionate  jealousy.  Who  was 
Charlotte  Pain,  she  asked  herself,  that 
she  should  come  between  them  with 
her  beaut}'" ;   with  her ■ 

Some  one  was  hastening  towards 
her;  crossing  the  green  lawn,  spring- 
ing up  the  steps  of  the  terrace  :  and 
the  jealous  feeling  died  away  into 
love. 

"  Were  you  waiting  for  me  ?"  whis- 
pered George  Godolphin.  "  We  met 
Verrall,  so  I  resigned  Mademoiselle 
to  his  charge.  Maria,  how  your  heart 
is  beating  !" 

"  I  was  startled  when  you  ran  up 
so  quickly  ;  I  did  not  think  it  could 
be  you,"  was  the  evasive  answer. 
"  Let  me  go,  please." 

"  My  darling,  don't  be  angry  with 
me  :  I  could  not  well  help  myself. 
You  know  with  whom  I  would  rather 
have  been." 

He  spoke  in  the  softest  whisper ; 
he  gazed  tenderly  into  her  face,  so 
fair  and  gentle  in  the  moonlight ;  he 
clasped  her  to  him  with  an  impas- 
sioned gesture.  And  Maria,  as  she 
yielded  to  his  tenderness  in  her  pure 
love,  and  felt  his  stolen  kisses  on  her 
lips,  forgot  the  jealous  trouble,  that 
was  being  wrought  by  Charlotte  Pain. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

ALL-SOULS'    RECTORY. 

At  the  Eastern  end  of  Prior's  Ash 
was  situated  the  church  and  rectory 
of  All  Souls', — a  valuable  living,  the 
Reverend  Isaac  Hastings  its  incum- 


bent. The  house,  enclosed  from  the 
high-road  by  a  lofty  hedge,  was  built, 
like  the  church,  of  grey  stone.  It 
was  a  commodious  residence,  but  its 
rooms,  save  one,  were  small.  This 
one  had  been  added  to  the  house  of 
late  years  :  a  long,  though  somewhat 
narrow  room,  its  three  windows  look- 
ing on  the  flowered  lawn.  A  very 
pleasant  room  to  sit  in  on  a  summer's 
day,  when  the  grass  was  green,  and 
the  many-colored  flowers,  with  their 
gay  brightness  and  their  perfume, 
gladdened  the  senses,  and  the  birds 
were  singing  and  the  bees  and  butter- 
flies sporting. 

Less  pleasant  to-day,  —  for,  the 
skies  wore  a  grey  hue ;  the  wind 
sighed  round  the  house  with  an  omi- 
nous sound,  telling  of  the  coming 
winter  ;  and  the  mossy  lawn  and  the 
paths  were  dreary  with  the  yellow 
leaves,  decaying  as  they  lay.  Mrs. 
Hastings,  a  lady-like  woman  of  middle 
height  and  fair  complexion,  stood  at 
one  of  these  windows,  watching  the 
bending  of  the  trees  as  the  wind  shook 
them ;  watching  the  leaves  falling. 
She  was  remarkably  susceptible  to 
surrounding  influences ;  seasons  and 
weather  holding  much  power  over 
her  :  but  that  she  was  a  clergyman's 
wife,  and,  as  such,  obliged  to  take  a 
very  practical  part  in  the  duties  of 
life,  she  might  have  subsided  into  a 
valetudinarian. 

A  stronger  gust  sent  the  leaves 
rustling  up  the  path,  and  Mrs.  Has- 
tings slightly  shivered: 

"  How  I  dislike  this  time  of  year  !" 
she  exclaimed.  "  I  wish  there  was 
no  autumn." 

"I  like  the  autumn:  although  it 
heralds  in  the  winter." 

The  reply  came  from  Mr.  Hastings, 
who  was  pacing  the  carpet,  thinking 
over  the  next  day's  sermon  :  for  it 
was  Saturday  morning.  Nature  had 
not  intended  Mr.  Hastings  for  a  par- 
son, and  his  sermons  were  the  bane 
of  his  life.  An  excellent  man  ;  a  most 
efficient  pastor  of  a  parish  ;  a  gentle- 
man, a  scholar,  abounding  in  good 
practical  sense  ;  but  nol  a  preacher. 
Sometimes    he    wrote    his    sermons, 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  H  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


43 


sometimes  he  tried  the  without-book 
plan  ;  but,  let  him  do  as  he  would, 
there  was  always  a  conviction  of  fail- 
ure, as  to  his  sermons  winning  their 
way  to  his  hearers'  hearts.  He  was 
under  the  middle  height,  with  keen 
aquiline  features,  his  dark  hair  al- 
ready sprinkled  with  grey. 

"  I  like  the  winter,"  said  Mrs.  Has- 
tings, in  reply.  "  I  like  a  snowy  day ; 
I  like  a  frosty  one,  when  the  hoar-frost 
hangs  in  icicles  from  the  trees  and  the 
hedges  ;  I  do  not  grumble  at  a  good 
soaking  rain.  But  when  the  leaves 
change  color,  and  fall,  leaving  the 
trees  bare,  and  the  autumn  wind 
moans  its  sad  song,  it  is  that  which  I 
dislike.  It  speaks  too  forcibly  of  the 
decay  that  awaits  us  all. 

'  Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And   flowers    to    wither    at    the    north 
wind's  breath, 
And  stars  to  set:  but  all, 

Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine   own, 
0  Death  !' 

I  never  see  the  leaves  fall,  but  those 
lines  come  into  my  memory  ;  and  then 
they  haunt  me  for  days,"  concluded 
Mrs.  Hastings. 

The  lines  sounded  to  the  rector 
something  like  what  he  would  have 
called  rank  rubbish,  for  he  was  a 
plain-speaking  man.  "  Who  are  they 
by  ?"  asked  he.  "  They  are  not 
Shakspeare's." 

Mrs.  Hastings  laughed.  "  Xot  by 
anybody  with  a  name  so  illustrious. 
I  met  with  them  many  years  ago,  and 
they  impressed  themselves  upon  my 
memory  As  I  tell  you,  they  come 
into  it  without  effort  of  mine,  when- 
ever I  see  the  leaves  as  we  see  them 
now." 

"  I  am  glad  the  wind  has  changed," 
remarked  the  rector.  "  We  shall  say 
good-by  to  the  fever.  While  that 
warm  weather  lasted,  I  always  had 
my  fears  of  its  breaking  out  afresh. 
It  was  but  coquetting  with  us.  I 
wonder " 

Mr.  Hastings  stopped,  as  if  lapsing 
into  thought.  Mrs.  Hastings  inquired 
what  his  "  wonder  "  might  be. 

"  I   was   thinking   of    Sir    George 


Godolphin,"  he  continued.  "One 
thought  leads  to  another  and  another, 
until  we  have  a  strange  train  :  if  we 
wanted  to  trace  them  back.  Begin- 
ning with  dead  leaves,  and  ending 
with — metaphysics. " 

"  What  are  you  talking  of,  Isaac?" 
his  wife  asked,  in  surprise. 

A  half  smile  crossed  the  thin,  deli- 
cate lips  of  Mr.  Hastings.  "You 
spoke  of  the  dead  leaves :  that,  led  to 
the' thought  of  the  fever  ;  the  fever  to 
the  bad  drainage  ;  the  bad  drainage 
to  the  declaration  of  Sir  George  Go- 
dolphin  that,  if  he  lived  till  next  year, 
it  should  be  remedied,  even  though 
he  had  to  pay  the  expense  himself. 
Then  the  train  went  on  to  speculate 
upon  whether  Sir  George  would  live  ; 
and  next  upon  whether  this  change 
of  weather  may  not  cause  my  lady  to 
relinquish  her  journey  ;  and  lastly,  to 
Maria.  Cold  Scotland,  if  we  are  to 
have  a  season  of  bleak  winds,  cannot 
be  beneficial  to  Sir  George." 

"  Lady  Godolphin  has  set  her  mind 
upon  going.  She  is  not  likely  to 
relinquish  it." 

"  Mark  you,  Caroline,"  said  Mr. 
Hastings,  halting  in  his  promenade, 
and  standing  opposite  his  wife,  "  it  is 
her  dread  of  the  fever  which  is  send- 
ing her  to  Scotland.  But  for  that, 
she  would  not  go,  now  that  it  is  so 
late  in  the  year." 

"  She  has  dreaded  the  fever  very 
much,  I  know." 

"  Dreaded  it  to  folly,  we  might  be 
tempted  to  say,  only  that  there  are 
certain  natures  which  cannot  help  this 
dread,  and  I  suppose  Lady  Godol- 
phin's  is  one.  She  did  not  like  to  run 
away  from  Sir  George  in  his  danger- 
ous illness,  and  so  lay  herself  open  to 
the  comments  of  Prior's  Ash ;  but  I 
am  sure  she  wished  to  run.  With 
this  change  in  the  weather,  from 
warmth  to  cold,  and  the  fever  sub- 
siding, I  should  not  now  be  surprised 
if  she  alters  her  plans,  and  remains 
at  home.     I  hope  she  will." 

"Why?"  asked  Mrs.  Hastings. 

"  On  Maria's  account.  I  do  not 
wish  Maria  to  go  to  Scotland." 

"You   said   so   yesterday,    Isaac; 


44 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


and  answered  me  evasively  when  I 
inquired  your  reason.  What  may 
your  objection  be  ?" 

Mr.  Hastings  knitted  his  brow.  "  It 
is  an  objection  more  easy  to  feel  than 
to  tell." 

"  When  the  invitation  was  given  in 
the  summer,  you  were  pleased  that 
she  should  go." 

"Yes;  I  acknowledge  it :  and,  had 
they  gone  then,  I  should  have  felt  no 
repugnance  to  the  visit.  But  I  now 
do  feel  a  repugnance  to  it,  so  far  as 
Maria  is  concerned, — an  unaccountable 
repugnance.  If  you  ask  me  to  ex- 
plain it,  or  to  tell  you  what  my  reason 
is,  I  can  only  answer  that  I  am  un- 
able. It  is  this  want  of  reason,  good 
or  bad,  which  has  prevented  me  en- 
tirely withdrawing  the  consent  I  gave. 
I  essayed  to  do  so,  when  Lady  Godol- 
phin  was  here  on  Thursday  ;  but  she 
pressed  me  closely,  and,  having  no 
sound  or  plausible  argument  to  bring 
forward  against  it,  my  opposition 
broke  down." 

"  I  cannot  see  why  you  should  ob- 
ject to  her  going  !"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Hastings.  "  It  is  a  desirable  visit  for 
Maria  in  all  ways." 

"  I  feel  that:  and  yet,  that  an  aver- 
sion to  it  has  taken  possession  of  me, 
is  a  fact  not  to  be  controverted.  There 
is  a  feeling  at  work  within  me,  which 
would  prompt  me  yet  to  keep  her  at 
home." 

"  I  should  have  the  laugh  at  you 
then,  Isaac.  You  sometimes  call  us 
women  to  account  for  acting,  as  you 
phrase  it,  without  reason.  I  hope 
you  will  not  needlessly  interfere  with 
this  little  pleasure  offered  to  Maria." 

Did  the  concluding  words,  spoken 
with  the  slightest  touch  of  severity, 
of  mockery,  decide  the  rector  to  put 
aside  his  idea  of  objection  and  recur 
to  it  no  more  ?  From  that  time  he 
did  not  again  mention  it.  Never  was 
there  a  man  less  given  to  whims  and 
fancies  than  the  Reverend  Isaac  Hast- 
ings. His  actions  and  thoughts  were 
based  on  the  sound  principle  of  plain 
matter-of-fact  sense  :  he  was  all  prac- 
tical ;  there  was  not  a  grain  of  ideality 
in  his  iomposition. 


At  that  moment  a  visitor's  knock 
was  heard.  Mrs  Hastings  wondered 
who  it  could  be.  The  habits  of  the 
rectory  were  known  and  respected  in 
Prior's  Ash,  and  it  was  not  customary 
to  pay  indiscriminate  visits  to  it  upon 
a  Saturday.  Mrs.  Hastings  took  an 
active  part  in  her  household,  especially 
so  with  her  children,  and  the  conclud- 
ing day  of  the  week  was  a  busy  one. 
She  now  did  what  many  another  lady 
does,  if  she  would  only  confess  to  it ; 
opened  the  door  the  space  of  an  inch 
to  reconnoitre,  as  a  servant  crossed 
the  hall  to  answer  the  knock. 

"I  declare  it  is  Maria!"  Mrs. 
Hastings  exclaimed,  throwing  the 
door  wider.  "  My  dear,  how  early 
you  have  come  down  !  I  did  not  ex- 
pect you  till  the  afternoon." 

Maria  Hastings  came  in.  She  wore 
her  grey  Cashmere  cloak,  so  soft  and 
fine  of  texture,  so  delicate  of  hue  ;  a 
pretty  morning  dress,  and  a  straw 
bonnet  trimmed  with  white.  A  healthy 
color  shone  on  her  delicate  face,  and 
her  eyes  were  sparkling  with  ifiward 
happiness.  Yery  attractive,  very  lady- 
like, was  Maria  Hastings. 

"  I  was  obliged  to  come  this  morn- 
ing, mamma,"  she  said,  when  greet- 
ings had  passed.  "  Some  of  my  things 
are  here  yet  which  I  wish  to  take,  and 
I  must  collect  them  and  send  them  to 
the  Folly.  We  start  on  Monday  morn- 
ing early :  every  thing  must  be  packed 
to-day." 

"  One  would  suppose  you  were  off 
for  a  year,  Maria,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Hastings,  "  to  hear  you  talk  of  '  col- 
lecting your  things.'  How  many 
trunk-loads  have  you  already  at  the 
Folly  ?" 

"  Only  two,  papa,"  she  replied, 
laughing,  and  wondering  why  Mr. 
Hastings  should  speak  with  asperity. 
"  They  are  trifles,  chiefly,  that  I  have 
come  for ;  books,  and  such-like  :  not 
for  clothes." 

"Your  papa  thought  it  likely  that 
Lady  Godolphin  would  not  now  go, 
as  the  fine  weather  seems  to  be  leav- 
ing us,"  said  Mrs.  Hastings. 

"  Oh  yes  she  will,"  replied  Maria. 
"  Her  mind  is  fully  made  up.     Hid 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASI1LYDYAT 


45 


you  not  know  that  the  orders  had 
already  been  sent  into  Berwickshire  ? 
And  some  of  the  servants  went  on 
this  morning." 

"  Great  ladies  change  their  minds 
sometimes,"  remarked  Mr.  Hastings, 
in  a  cynical  tone. 

Maria  shook  her  head.  She  had 
untied  the  strings  of  her  bonnet,  and 
was  unfastening  her  mantle.  "  Sir 
George,  who  had  got  up  to  breakfast 
since  Thursday,  asked  Lady  Godol- 
phin  this  morning  whether  it  would 
not  be  late  for  Scotland,  and  she  re- 
sented the  remark.  What  do  you 
think  she  said,  mamma  ?  That  if 
there  was  nothing  else  to  take  her  to 
Scotland,  this  absurd  rumor,  of  the 
shadow's  having  come  again,  would 
drive  her  thither." 

"  What's  that,  Maria  ?"  demanded 
the  clergyman,  in  a  sharp,  displeased 
accent. 

"  A  rumor  has  arisen,  papa,  that 
the  shadow  is  appearing  at  Ashlydyat. 
It  was  seen  on  Wednesday  night.  On 
Thursday  night  some  of  us  went  to  the 
ash-trees ■" 

"  You  went  ?"  interrupted  the  rec- 
tor. 

"  Yes,  papa,"  she  answered,  her 
voice  growing  timid,  for  he  spoke  in 
a  tone  of  great  displeasure.  "  I,  and 
Miss  Godolphin,  and  Bessy.  We  were 
not  alone :  George  Godolphin  was 
with  us." 

"  And  what  did  you  see  ?"  eagerly 
interposed  Mrs.  Hastings,  who  pos- 
sessed more  of  the  organ  of  marvel  in 
her  composition  than  her  husband. 

"Mamma,  we  saw  nothing.  Only 
the  Dark  Plain  lying  quietly  under 
the  moonlight.  There  appeared  to 
be  nothing  to  see  ;  nothing  unusual." 

"  But  that  I  hear  you  say  this  with 
my  own  ears,  I  should  not  have  be- 
lieved you  capable  of  giving  utterance 
to  folly  so  intense,"  sternly  exclaimed 
Mr.  Hastings  to  his  daughter.  "Are 
you  the  child  of  Christian  parents  ? 
have  you  received  an  enlightened  edu- 
cation ?" 

Maria's  eyelids  fell  under  the  re- 
proof, and  the  soft  color  in  her  cheeks 
deepened. 


"  That  a  daughter  of  mine  should 
confess  to  running  after  a  '  shadow'!" 
he  continued,  really  with  more  as- 
perity than  the  case  seemed  to  war- 
rant :  but  the  rector  of  '  All  Souls' 
was  one  wrho  would  have  deemed  it 
little  less  heresy  to  doubt  his  Bible, 
than  to  countenance  a  tale  of  super- 
stition. He  repudiated  such  with  the 
greatest  contempt :  he  never,  even 
though  proof  positive  had  been  brought 
before  his  eyes,  could  accord,  to  such, 
an  iota  of  credence.  "  An  absurd  tale 
of  a  '  shadow,'  fit  only  to  be  told  to 
those  who,  in  their  blind  credulity, 
formerly  burnt  poor  creatures  for 
witches  ;  fit  only  to  amuse  the  gaping 
ears  of  ignorant  urchins,  whom  we 
put  in  our  fields  to  frighten  away  the 
crows  !  And  my  daughter  has  lent 
herself  to  it !  Can  this  be  the  result 
of  your  training,  madam  ?"  turning 
angrily  to  his  wife — "  or  of  mine  ?" 

"  I  did  not  run  after  it  from  my  own 
curiosity ;  I  went  because  the  rest 
went,"  deprecatingly  answered  poor 
Maria,  in  her  confusion,  all  conscious 
that  the  stolen  moonnght  walk  with 
Mr.  George  Godolphin  had  been  a  far 
more  powerful  moving  motive  to  the 
expedition  than  the  "shadow. "  "  Miss 
Pain  saw  it  on  the  Wednesday  night ; 
Margery  saw  it — " 

"  Will  you  cease  ?"  broke  forth  the 
rector.  "  '  Saw  it !'  If  they  said  they 
saw  it,  they  must  have  been  laboring 
under  a  delusion  ;  or  else  were  telling 
a  deliberate  untruth.  And  you  do  not 
know  better  than  to  repeat  the  igno- 
rance !  What  would  Sir  George  think 
of  you  ?" 

"  I  shall  not  mention  it  in  his  pres- 
ence, papa.    Or  in  Lady  Godolphin's." 

"  Neither  shafTyou  in  mine.  It  is 
not  possible" — Mr.  Hastings  stood  be- 
fore her  and  fixed  his  eyes  sternly 
upon  hers — "that  you  can  be  a  be- 
liever in  it  ?" 

"  I  think  not,  papa,"  she  answered, 
in  her  strict  truth.  To  truth,  at  any 
rate,  she  had  been  trained,  whether  by 
father  or  by  mother  :  and  she  would 
not  violate  it,  even  to  evade  displeas- 
ure. "  I  think  that  my  feeling  upon 
the  point  is  curiosity  ;  not  belief." 


46 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


'  Then  that  curiosity  implies  be- 
lief," sternly  replied  the  rector.  "  If 
a  man  came  to  me  and  said,  '  There's 
an  elephant  out  there  in  the  garden,' 
and  I  went  forth  to  see,  would  not 
that  prove  my  credence  in  the  as- 
sertion ?" 

Maria  was  no  logician  ;  or  she  had 
answered,  "  No,  you  might  go  to  prove 
the  error  of  the  assertion."  "  Indeed, 
papa,  if  I  know  any  thing  of  myself, 
I  am  not  a  believer  in  it,"  she  re- 
peated, her  cheeks  growing  hotter  and 
hotter.  "  If  I  were  once  to  see  the 
shadow,  why  then — " 

"  Be  silent !  be  still  !"  he  criedj  not 
allowing  her  to  continue.  "  I  shall 
think  next  that  I  am  talking  to  that 
silly  dreamer,  Janet  Godolphin.  Is 
it  she  who  has  imbued  you  with  this 
tone  of  mind  ?" 

Maria  shook  her  head.  There 
was  an  under-current  of  consciousness, 
lying  deep  in  her  heart,  that  if  a 
"  tone  "  upon  the  point  had  been  in- 
sensibly acquired  by  her,  it  was  caught 
from  one  far  jnore  precious  to  her 
heart,  far  more  essential  to  her  very 
existence,  than  was  Janet  Godolphin. 
That  last  Thursday  night,  in  running 
with  George  Godolphin  after  this  tale 
of  the  shadow,  his  arm  cast  lovingly 
round  her,  she  had  acquired  the  im- 
pression, from  a  few  words  he  let  fall, 
that  he  must  be  a  believer  in  it.  She 
was  content  that  his  creed  should  be 
hers  in  all  things  :  had  she  wished  to 
differ  from  him,  it  would  have  been 
beyond  her  power.  Mr.  Hastings  ap- 
peared to  wait  for  an  answer. 

"  Janet  Godolphin  does  not  intrude 
her  superstitious  fancies  upon  the 
world,  papa.  Were  she  to  seek  to 
convert  me  to  them,  I  should  not 
listen." 

"  Dismiss  the  subject  altogether 
from  your  thoughts,  Maria,"  com- 
manded the  rector.  "If  men  and 
women  would  perform  efficiently  their 
allotted  part  in  life,  there  is  enough 
of  hard  substance  to  occupy  their 
minds  and  their  hours,  without  losing 
either  the  one  or  the  other  in  '  shad- 
ows.'    Take  you  note  of  that," 

"  Yes,    papa,"   she    dutifully    an- 


swered, scarcely  knowing  whether 
she  had  deserved  the  lecture  or  not, 
but  glad  that  it  was  at  an  end. 
"  Mamma,  where  is  Grace  ?" 

"  In  the  study.  You  can  go  to  her. 
There's  David  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Has- 
tings, as  Maria  left  the  room. 

A  short,  thick-set  man  had  ap- 
peared in  the  garden,  giving  rise  to 
the  concluding  remark  of  Mrs.  Has- 
tings. If  you  have  not  forgotten, 
my  dear  reader,  you  may  remember 
that  Bessy  Godolphin  spoke  of  a  man 
who  had  expressed  his  pleasure  at 
seeing  her  father  out  again.  She 
called  him  "Old  Jekyl."  Old  Jekyl 
lived  in  a  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of 
Prior's  Ash.  He  had  been  in  his 
days  a  working-gardener,  but  rheuma- 
tism and  growing  age  had  put  him 
beyond  work  now.  There  was  a  good 
piece  of  garden  ground  to  his  cottage, 
and  it  was  made  productive.  Vege- 
tables and  fruit  were  groAvn  in  it;  and 
a  small  board,  tied  in  front  of  the 
laburnum-tree  at  the  gate,  intimated 
that  "Cut  flowers  are  sold  here." 
There  were  also  hives  of  bees.  Old 
Jekyl  (Prior's  Ash  never  dignified 
him  by  any  other  title)  had  no  wife  : 
she  was  dead  :  but  his  two  sons  lived 
with  him,  and  they  followed  the  oc- 
cupation that  had  been  his.  I  could 
not  tell  you  how  many  gardens  in 
Prior's  Ash  and  its  environs  those  two 
men  kept  in  order.  Many  a  family, 
not  going  to  the  expense  of  keeping 
a  regular  gardener, — some,  perhaps, 
not  able  to  go  to  it, — entrusted  the 
care  of  their  garden  to  the  Jekyls, 
paying  them  a  stipulated  sum  yearly. 
The  plan  answered  well.  The  gar- 
dens were  kept  in  order,  and  the 
Jekyls  earned  a  good  living  :  both 
masters  and  men  being  contented. 

They  had  been  named  Jonathan 
and  David  :  and  were  as  opposite  as 
men  and  brothers  could  well  be,  both 
in  nature  and  appearance.  Each  was 
worthy  in  his  way.  Jonathan  stood 
six-feet-three,  if  he  stood  an  inch,  and 
was  sufficiently  slender  for  a  genteel 
lamp-post :  rumor  went  that  he  had 
occasionally  been  taken  for  one.  An 
easy-going,  obliging,  talkative,  mild- 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT. 


47 


tempered  man,  was  Jonathan,  making 
his  opinions  agree  with  everybody's. 
Mrs.  Hastings  was  wont  to  declare 
that  if  she  were  to  say  to  him,  "  You 
know,  Jonathan,  the  sun  never  shone," 
his  answer  would  be,  "  Well,  ma'am, 
I  don't  know  as  ever  it  did,  over- 
high t,  iike."  David  had  the  build 
of  a  Dutchman,  and  was  taciturn  upon 
most  subjects.  In  manner  he  was 
somewhat  surly,  and  would  hold  his 
own  opinion,  especially  if  it  touched 
upon  his  occupation,  against  the  world. 

Amongst  others  who  employed  them 
in  this  way,  was  the  rector  of  All 
Souls'.  They  were  in  the  habit  of 
coming  and  going,  to  that  or  any 
other  garden,  as  they  pleased,  at 
whatever  day  or  time  suited  their 
convenience  :  sometimes  one  brother, 
sometimes  the  other,  sometimes  one 
of  the  two  boys  they  employed,  as 
they  might  arrange  between  them- 
selves. Any  garden  entrusted  to 
their  care  they  were  sure  to  keep 
thoroughly  in  order  ;  therefore  their 
time  and  mode  of  doing  it  was  not 
interfered  with.  Mrs.  Hastings  sud- 
denly saw  David  in  the  garden. 

"  I  will  get  him  to  sweep  those 
ugly  dead  leaves  from  the  paths,"  she 
exclaimed,  throwing  up  the  window. 
"  David  1" 

David  heard  the  call,  turned  round, 
and  looked.  Finding  he  was  wanted, 
he  advanced  in  a  leisurely,  indepen- 
dent sort  of  manner,  giving  his  at- 
tention to  the  beds  as  he  passed  them, 
and  stopping  to  pluck  off  any  dead 
flower  that  offended  his  eye.  He 
gave  a  nod  as  he  reached  Mrs.  Has- 
tings, the  features  of  his  face  not  re- 
laxing in  the  least.  The  nod  was  a 
mark  of  respect,  and  meant  as  such, — 
the  only  demonstration  of  respect 
commonly  shown  by  David.  His 
face  was  not  an  ugly  face,  though  too 
flat  and  broad  ;  it  was  fair  in  com- 
plexion, and  his  eyes  were  blue. 

"David,  look  how  the  leaves  have 
fallen  !  how  they  lie  upon  the  ground  !" 

David  gave  a  half  glance  round,  by 
way  of  answer,  but  he  did  not  speak. 
He  knew  the  k  aves  were  there,  with- 
out looking. 


"  You  must  clear  them  away,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Hastings. 

"  No,"  responded  David  to  this. 
"Twon't  be  of  no  use." 

"  But,  David,  you  know  how  very 
much  I  dislike  to  see  these  withered 
leaves,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Hastings,  in  a 
voice  of  pleading  more  than  of  com- 
mand. Command  answered  little 
with  David. 

"  Can't  help  seeing  of  'em,"  per- 
sisted David.  "  Leaves  will  wither  ; 
and  will  fall  ;  its  the  natur'  of  'em  to 
do  it.  If  every  one  of  them,  lying 
there  now,  was  raked  up  and  swep' 
away,  there'd  be  as  many  down  again 
to-morrow  morning.  I  can't  neglect 
my  beds  to  fad  with  them  leaves, — and 
bring  no  good  to  pass  after  all." 

"David,  I  do  not  think  anybody 
ever  was  so  self-willed  as  you  !"  said 
Mrs.  Hastings,  laughing  in  spite  of 
her  vexation. 

"  I  know  my  business,"  was  the 
answer  of  David.  "If  I  gave  in,  at 
my  different  places,  to  all  the  missises' 
whims,  how  should  I  get  my  work 
done  ?  the  masters,  they'd  be  for  blow- 
ing of  me  up,  thinking  it  were  idle- 
ness. Look  at  Jonathan  !  he  lets 
himself  be  swayed  an y way ;  and  a 
nice  time  he  gets  of  it,  among  'em. 
His  day's  work's  never  done." 

"  You  will  not  suffer  the  leaves  to 
lie  there  till  the  end  of  the  season  !" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Hastings.  "  They 
would  be  above  our  ankles  as  we 
walked." 

"  Maybe  they  would,"  composedly 
returned  David.  "  I  have  cleared 
'em  off  about  six  times  this  fall,  and  I 
shall  clear  'em  again.  But  not  as 
long  as  this  wind  lasts." 

"  Is  it  going  to  last,  David  ?"  in- 
quired the  rector,  appearing  at  his 
wife's  side,  and  laughing  inwardly  at 
her  failure  in  diplomacy. 

David  nodded  his  usual  salutation 
as  he  answered.  He  would  some- 
times relax  so  far  as  to  say  "  Sir"  to 
Mr.  Hastings,  an  honor  paid  exclu- 
sively to  his  pastoral  capacity.  "  No, 
it  won't  last,  sir.  We  shall  get  the 
warm  weather  back  again." 

"  You    think   so !"   exclaimed   the 


48 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


rector,  in  an  accent  of  disappointment. 
Experience  had  taught  him  that  Da- 
vid, in  regard  to  being  weather-wise, 
was  a  very  oracle. 

"  I  am  sure  so,"  answered  David. 
"  The  b'rorneter's  a  going  fast  on  to 
heat,  too." 

"  Is  it,"  said  Mr.  Hastings.  "You 
have  often  told  me  you  put  no  faith 
in  the  barometer." 

"  No  more  I  don't :  unless  other 
signs  answers  to  it,"  said  David. 
"  The  very  best  b'rometer  going,  is 
old  father's  rheumatiz.  There  was  a 
sharp  frost  last  night,  sir." 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  Mr.  Blastings. 
"  A  few  nights  of  that,  and  the  fever 
will  be  driven  away." 

"  We  shan't  get  a  few  nights  of  it," 
said  David.  "  And  the  fever  has 
broke  out  again." 

"  What !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hastings. 
"  The  fever  broken  out  again  ?" 

"  Yes  it  have,"  said  David. 

The  news  fell  upon  the  clergyman's 
heart  like  a  knell.  He  had  fully 
believed  the  danger  to  have  passed 
away,  though  not  yet  the  sickness. 
"Are  you  sure  that  it  has  broken  out 
again,  David  ?"  he  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

"I  ain't  no  surer  than  I  was  told, 
sir,"  returned  phlegmatic  David.  "  I 
met  Cox  just  now,  and  he  said,  as  he 
passed,  that  the  fever  had  showed 
itself  in  a  fresh  place." 

"  Do  you  know  where  ?"  inquired 
Mr.  Hastings. 

"He  said,  I  b'lieve  ;  but  I  didn't 
catch  it.  If  I  stopped  to  listen  to  the 
talk  of  fevers,  and  such-like,  where 
would  my  work  be  ?" 

David  moved  away  ere  he  had  done 
speaking ;  possibly  from  the  impres- 
sion that  the  present  "  talk  "  was  not 
exactly  forwarding  his  work. 

"If  this  is  true,  Lady  Godolphin 
will  be  sure  to  go,"  observed  Mr. 
Hastings  more  in  self-soliloquy  than 
to  his  wife.  It  proved  that  the  visit 
to  Scotland  was  still  uppermost  in  his 
thoughts.  "  I  shall  go  out  and  see  if 
I  can  glean  any  news,"  he  added.  "  I 
do  trust  it  may  be  a  false  alarm." 

Taking  his  hat,  one  of  very  clerical 


shape,  with  a  broad  brim,  the  rector 
left  his  house.  He  was  scarcely  with- 
out the  gates  when  he  saw  Mr.  Snow, 
who  was  -the  most  popular  doctor  in 
Prior's  Ash,  coming  aiouic  quickly  in 
his  gig.  Mr.  Hastings  held  out  his 
hand,  and  the  groom  pulled  up. 

"Is  it  true  ? — thi«  fresh  rumor  of 
the  fever  V 

"  Too  true,  I  fear."  replied  Mr. 
Snow.  "  I  am  on  my  way  thither 
now ;  just  summoned." 

"  Who  is  attacked  ?" 

"Sarah  Anne  Grame  " 

The  name  appeared  to  startle  the 
rector.  "  Sarah  Anne  Grame  1"  he 
uttered.  "  She  will  never  battle 
through  it  !"  The  doctor  raised  his 
eyebrows,  as  if  he  thought  it  doubt- 
ful, himself,  and  signed  to  his  groom 
to  hasten  on. 

"  Tell  Lady  Sarah  I  will  call  upon 
her  in  the  course  of  the  day,"  called 
out  Mr.  Hastings,  as  the  gig  sped  on 
its  way.  "  I  must  ask  Maria  if  she 
has  heard  news  of  this,"  he  continued, 
in  self-soliloquy,  as  he  turned  within 
the  rectory  gate. 

Maria  Hastings  had  found  her  way 
to  the  study.  To  dignify  a  room  by 
the  appellation  "  study  "  in  a  clergy- 
man's house,  would  at  once  impart 
the  idea  that  it  must  be  the  private 
sanctum  of  its  master,  consecrated  10 
his  sermons  and  his  other  clerical 
studies.  Not  so,  however,  in  the  rec- 
tory of  All  Souls'.  The  study  there 
was  chiefly  consecrated  to  litter,  and 
the  master  had  less  to  do  with  it  per- 
sonally, than  with  almost  any  other 
room  in  the  house.  There,  the  chil- 
dren, boys  and  girls,  played  or  learnt 
lessons,  or  practised  ;  there,  Mrs. 
Hastings  would  sit  to  sew  when  she 
had  any  work  about,  too  plebeian  for 
the  polite  eyes  of  visitors. 

Grace,  the  eldest  of  the  family,  was 
twenty  years  of  age,  one  year  older 
than  Maria.  She  bore  a  great  resem- 
blance to  her  father;  and,  like  him, 
was  more  practical  than  imaginative. 
She  was  very  useful  in  the  house,  an« 
took  much  care  off  the  hands  of  Mrs. 
Hastings.  It  happened  that  all  the 
children,  five  of  them  besides  Maria, 


THE      SHADOW      OF    ASHLYDYAT 


49 


were  this  morning  at  home.  It  was 
holiday  that  day  with  the  boys. 
Isaac  was  next  to  Maria,  but  nearly 
three  years  younger  ;  one  had  died 
between  them ;  Reginald  was  next ; 
Harry  last;  and  then  came  a  little 
girl.  Rose.  They  ought  to  have  been 
preparing  their  lessons  ;  were  sup- 
posed to  be  so  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Has- 
tings :  in  point  of  fact,  they  were 
gathered  round  Grace,  who  was  seated 
on  a  low  stool  solving  some  amusing 
puzzles  from  a  new  book.  They 
started  up  when  Maria  entered,  and 
went  dancing  round  her. 

Maria  danced  too  ;  she  kissed  them 
all ;  she  sang  aloud  in  her  glad  joy- 
ousness  of  heart.  What  was  it  that 
made  that  heart  so  glad,  bright  as  a 
very  Eden  ?  The  ever  constant  pre- 
sence in  it  of  George  Godolphin. 

"  Have  you  come  home  to  stay, 
Maria  ?" 

"  I  have  come  to  go,"  she  answered, 
with  a  gleeful  laugh.  "We  start  for 
Scotland  on  Monday,  and  I  want  to 
hunt  up  lots  of  things." 

"  It  is  fine  to  be  you,  Maria  !"  ex- 
claimed Grace,  with  a  sensation  very 
like  envy.  "  You  get  all  the  pleasure, 
and  I  have  to  stop  at  home  and  do  all 
the  work.     It  is  not  fair." 

"  Gracie  dear,  it  will  be  your  turn 
next.  I  did  not  ask  Lady  Godolphin 
to  invite  me,  instead  of  you.  I  never 
thought  of  her  inviting  me,  being  the 
younger." 

"  But  she  did,"  grumbled  Grace. 

"  I  say,  Maria,  you  are  not  to  go  to 
Scotland,"  struck  in  Isaac. 

"  Who  says  so  ?"  cried  Maria,  her 
heart  standing  still,  as  she  halted  in 
one  corner  of  the  room  with  at  least 
half  a  dozen  arms  round  her. 

"  Mamma  said  yesterday  she  thought 
you  were  not :  that  papa  would  not 
have  it." 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  and  Maria's  pulses 
coursed  on  again.  "  I  am  to  go  :  I 
have  just  been  with  papa  and  mamma. 
They  know  that  I  have  come  to  get 
my  things  for  the  journey." 

"  Maria,  who  goes  ?" 

"  Sir  George  and  my  lady,  and  I 
and  Charlotte  Pain." 
3 


"Maria,  I  want  to  know  why  Char- 
lotte Pain  goes  ?"  cried  Grace. 

Maria  laughed.  "  You  are  like 
Bessy  Godolphin,  Grace.  She  asked 
the  same  question,  and  my  lady  an- 
swered, '  Because  she  chose  to  invite 
her.'  I  can  only  repeat  to  you  the 
same  reason." 

"  Does  George  Godolphin  go  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Maria. 

"  Oh,  doesn't  he,  though  !"  exclaim- 
ed Reginald.  "  Tell  that  to  the  ma- 
rines, mademoiselle." 

"  He  does  not  go  with  us,"  said 
Maria.  "  Or,  if  he  does,  I  am  not 
acquainted  with  the  arrangement. 
Regy,  you  know  you  will  get  into  hot 
water  if  you  use  those  sea-phrases." 

"  Sea-phrases  !  that  is  just  like  a 
girl,"  retorted  Reginald.  "  If  I  set 
on  and  let  out  a  little  quarter-deck 
language,  there's  nobody  here  to  ex- 
plode at  it,  unless  you  and  Grace  turn 
into  enemies.  What  will  you  lay  me  that 
George  Godolphin  is  not  in  Scotland 
within  a  week  after  you  all  get  there  ?" 

"  I  will  not  lay  any  thing,"  said 
Maria,  who  in  her  inmost  heart  hoped 
and  believed  that  George  would  be 
there. 

"  Catch  him  stopping  away  if  Char- 
lotte Pain  goes  !"  went  on  Reginald. 
"  Yesterday  I  was  at  the  pastry-cook's, 
having  a  tuck-out  with  that  shilling 
old  Crosse  gave  me,  and  Mr.  George 
and  Miss  Charlotte  came  in.  I  heard 
a  little." 

"  What  did  you  hear  ?"  breathed 
Maria.  She  could  not  help  the  ques- 
tion, any  more  than  she  could  help 
the  wild  beating  of  her  heart  at  the 
boy's  words. 

"  I  did  not  catch  it  all,"  said  Regi- 
nald. "  It  was  about  Scotland,  though, 
and  what  they  should  do  when  they 
were  there.  Mrs.  Verrall's  carriage 
came  up  then,  and  he  put  her  into  it. 
An  out-and-out  flirt  is  George  Godol- 
phin !" 

Grace  Hastings  threw  her  keen, 
dark  eyes  upon  Maria.  "  Do  not  let 
him  flirt  with  you,"  she  said,  in  a 
marked  tone.  "  You  like  him ;  1  do 
not.  I  never  thought  George  Godol- 
phin worth  his  salt." 


50 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT 


"  That's  just  like  Grace  !"  exclaim- 
ed Isaac.  "  Taking  her  likes  and  dis- 
likes !  and  for  no  cause  or  reason 
but  her  own  crotchets  or  prejudices. 
He  is  the  nicest  fellow  going,  is 
George  Godolphin.  Charlotte  Pain's 
is  a  new  face  and  a  beautiful  one  :  let 
him  admire  it." 

"  He  admires  rather  too  many," 
nodded  Grace. 

"  As  long  as  he  does  not  admire 
yours,  you  have  no  right  to  grumble," 
rejoined  Isaac,  provokingly  :  and  Grace 
flung  a  bundle  of  work  at  him,  for  the 
laugh  turned  against  her. 

"  Rose,  you  naughty  child,  you 
have  got  my  crayons  there  1"  exclaim- 
ed Maria,  happening  to  cast  her  eyes 
upon  the  table,  where  Rose  was  seated 
too  quietly  to  be  at  any  thing  but 
mischief. 

"  Only  one  or  two  of  the  sketching 
pencils,  Maria,"  said  Miss  Rose.  "  I 
shan't  hurt  them.  I  am  making  a 
villa  with  two  towers  and  some  cows." 
"  I  shall  particularly  want  my  sketch- 
ing pencils,"  rejoined  Maria,  taking 
them  up.  "  Lady  Godolphin  says 
there  are  some  lovely  views  about 
the  place.  Rose,  what  have  you  been 
doing  ?  The  pencils  are  half  cut  away  ! 
You  must  have  used  a  table-knife  to 
hack  them  in  this  manner  !" 

"  The  boys  would  not  lend  me  any 
of  their  penknifes,"  was  the  little 
lady's  excuse. 

"  Somebody  find  her  a  common 
pencil ;  there  are  plenty  about," 
said  Maria,  taking  possession  of  her 
own. 

"  Maria,  it  has  got  so  late  in  the 
year  that  you  ought  to  have  taken 
your  winter  clothes,"  said  Grace. 

"  Maria,  what  do  you  think  ?  we  had 
such  a  row  in  school  yesterday !" 
roared  Harry.  "  Old  Peters  threatened 
to  expel  a  few." 

"I  say,  Maria,  is  Charlotte  Pain  go- 
ing to  take  that  thorough-bred  hun- 
ter of  hers  ?"  interposed  Reginald. 

"  Of  course,"  scoffed  Isaac  :  "  sad- 
dled and  bridled.  She'll  have  him  with 
her  in  the  railway  carriage ;  put  him  in 
the  corner  seat  opposite  Sir  George. 
Regy's  brains  may  do  for  sea, — if  he 


can  get  there  ;  but  they  are  not  sharp 
enough  for  land." 

"  They  are  as  sharp  as  yours,  at 
any  rate,"  flashed  Reginald.  "  Why 
should  she  not  take  him  ?" 

"Be  quiet,  you  boys,"  said  Grace. 
"  Maria,  how  frequently  shall  you 
write  to  us  ?" 

In  this  desultory  sort  of  way  were 
they  engaged,  when  disturbed  by  Mr. 
Hastings.  He  did  not  open  the  door 
at  the  most  opportune  moment.  Ma- 
ria, Isaac,  and  Harry  were  executing 
a  dance  that  probably  had  no  name  in 
the  dancing  calender ;  Reginald  was 
standing  on  his  head  ;  Rose  had  just 
upset  the  contents  of  the  table,  by  in- 
advertently drawing  off  its  old  cloth 
cover,  and  Grace  was  scolding  her  in 
a  high  tone. 

"  What  do  you  call  this  ?"  de- 
manded Mr.  Hastings,  when  he  had 
leisurely  surveved  the  scene.  "  Studv- 
ing  ?" 

They  subsided  into  quietness  and 
their  places  ;  Reginald  with  his  face 
red  and  his  hair  wild,  Maria  with  a 
pretty  blush,  Isaac  with  a  smothered 
laugh.  Mr.  Hastings  addressed  his 
second  daughter. 

"  Have  you  heard  any  thing  about 
this  fresh  outbreak  of  the  fever  ?" 

"  No,    papa,"    was    the    reply   of 
Maria.     "  Has  it  broken  out  again  ?" 
"  I  hear  that  it  has  attacked  Sarah 
Anne  Grame." 

"  Oh,  papa  !"  uttered  Grace,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  in  sorrowful  consterna- 
tion. "  Will  she  ever  live  through 
it?" 

Just  the  same  doubt,  you  see,  that 
had  occurred  to  the  rector. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THOMAS   GODOLPHIN'S   LOVE. 

For  nearly  a  mile  beyond  All 
Souls'  Rectory,  as  you  went  out  of 
Prior's  Ash,  there  wTere  scattered 
houses  and  cottages.  In  one  of  them 
lived  Lady  Sarah  Grame.     We  take 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


51 


our  ideas  from  associations  ;  and,  in 
speaking  of  the  residence  of  Lady 
Sarah  Grame,  or  Lady  Sarah  Any- 
body, imagination  might  conjure  up 
some  fine  old  mansion,  with  its  proper 
appurtenances,  —  grounds,  and  ser- 
vants, and  carriages,  and  grandeur : 
or,  at  least,  a  "  villa  with  two  turrets, 
and  some  cows,"  as  Rose  Hastings 
expressed  it. 

Far  more  like  an  humble  cottage 
than  a  fine  mansion  was  the  abode  of 
Lady  Sarah  Grame.  It  was  a  small, 
pretty,  detached  white  house,  con- 
taining eight  or  nine  rooms  at  the 
most ;  and  they  not  very  large  ones. 
A  plot  of  ground  before  it  was  crowded 
with  flowers, — far  too  crowded,  for 
good  taste,  as  David  Jekyl  would 
point  out  to  Lady  Sarah  ;  but  Lady 
Sarah  loved  flowers,  and  would  not 
part  with  one  of  them. 

The  daughter  of  one  soldier,  and 
the  wife  of  another,  Lady  Sarah  had 
scrambled  through  life  amidst  bustle, 
perplexity,  and  poverty.  Sometimes 
quartered  in  barracks,  sometimes  fol- 
lowing the  army  abroad  ;  out  of  one 
place  into  another  ;  never  settled  any- 
where for  long.  It  was  an  existence 
not  to  be  envied  :  although  it  is  the 
lot  of  many.  She  was  Mrs.  Grame 
then,  and  her  husband,  the  captain, 
was  not  a  very  good  husband  to  her  : 
he  was  rather  too  fond  of  amusing 
himself,  and  he  threw  all  the  care 
upon  her  shoulders.  She  passed  her 
days  nursing  her  sickly  children,  and 
endeavoring  to  make  one  sovereign 
go  as  far  as  two.  One  morning,  to 
her  own  unspeakable  embarrassment, 
she  found  herself  converted  from  plain 
Mrs.  Grame  into  Lady  Sarah.  Her 
father  boasted  of  a  peer  in  a  very  re- 
mote relative,  and  came  unexpectedly 
into  the  title. 

Had  he  come  into  money  with  it, 
it  would  have  been  more  welcome  ; 
but  of  that  there  was  but  a  scanty 
supply.  A  poor,  poor  Scotch  peer- 
age, it  was,  with  but  narrow  estates, 
and  they  encumbered.  Lady  Sarah 
wished  she  could  drop  the  honor 
which  had  fallen  to  her  share,  unless 
she  could  live  a  little  more  in  accord- 


ance with  it.  She  had  much  sorrow  ; 
she  lost  one  child  after  another,  until 
she  had  but  two  left,  Sarah  Anne  and 
Ethel.  Then  she  lost  her  husband  ; 
and,  next,  her  father.  Chance  drove 
her  to  Prior's  Ash,  which  was  near 
her  husband's  native  place  ;  and  she 
settled  there,  upon  her  limited  means. 
All  she  possessed  was  her  pension  as 
a  captain's  widow,  and  the  interest  of 
a  sum  which  her  father  had  been  en- 
abled to  leave  her, — the  whole  not 
exceeding  five  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
She  took  the  white  cottage,  then  just 
built,  and  dignified  it  with  the  name 
of  "  Grame  House  :"  and  the  man- 
sions in  the  vicinity  of  Prior's  Ash 
were  content  not  to  laugh,  but  to  pay 
respect  to  her  as  an  earl's  daughter. 

Lady  Sarah  was  a  partial  woman. 
She  had  but  those  two  daughters,  and 
her  love  for  them  was  as  contrasted 
as  light  is  with  darkness.  Sarah 
Anne  she  regarded  with  an  inordi- 
nate affection,  almost  amounting  to  a 
passion  ;  for  Ethel,  she  did  not  care. 
What  could  be  the  reason  of  this  ? 
What  is  the  reason  that  parents 
(many  such  may  be  found)  will  love 
some  of  their  children,  and  dislike 
others  ?  They  cannot  tell,  any  more 
than  Lady  Sarah  could.  Ask  them, 
and  they  will  be  unable  to  give  yon 
an  answer.  It  does  not  lie  in  the 
children  :  it  often  happens  that  those, 
obtaining  the  least  love,  will  be  the 
most  worthy  of  it.  Such  was  the 
case  here.  Sarah  Ann  Grame  was  a 
pale,  sickly,  fretful  girl ;  full  of  whims, 
full  of  complaints,  giving  trouble  to 
everybody  about  her.  Ethel,  with  her 
sweet  countenance  and  her  merry 
heart,  made  the  sunshine  of  the  home. 
She  bore  with  her  sister's  exacting 
moods,  she  bore  with  her  mother's 
want  of  love  ;  she  loved  them  both, 
and  waited  on  them,  and  carrolled 
forth  her  snatches  of  song  as  she 
moved  about  the  house,  and  was  as 
happy  as  the  day  was  long.  Ask  the 
servants, — they  kept  only  two, — and 
they  would  tell  you  that  Miss  Grame 
was  cross  and  selfish ;  but  that  Miss 
Ethel  was  worth  her  weight  in  gold. 
The  gold  was  soon  to  be  appropri- 


52 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


ated  :  transplanted  to  a  home  where 
it  would  be  appreciated  and  cherished: 
for  Ethel  was  the  affianced  wife  of 
Thomas  Godolphin. 

On  the  morning  already  mentioned, 
when  you  have  heard  it  said  that  the 
fever  had  broken  out  again,  Sarah 
Anne  Grame  awoke,  ill.  In  her  im- 
patient, fretful  way,  she  called  out  to 
Ethel,  who  slept  in  an  adjoining  room. 
Ethel  was  fast  asleep  :  but  she  was 
accustomed  to  be  roused  out  of  her 
bed  at  unseasonable  hours  by  Sarah 
Anne,  and  she  threw  on  her  dressing- 
gown  and  hastened  to  her. 

"  I  want  some  tea,"  began  Sarah 
Anne.  "  I  am  as  ill  and  thirsty  as  I 
can  be." 

Sarah  Anne  was  really  of  a  sickly 
constitution,  and,  to  hear  her  complain 
of  being  "ill"  and  "thirsty,"  was 
nothing  unusual.  Ethel,  in  her  loving 
nature,  her  sweet  patience,  received 
the  information  with  as  much  concern 
as  though  she  had  never  heard  it  be- 
fore. She  bent  over  Sarah  Anne,  and 
spoke  tenderly. 

"Where  do  you  feel  pain,  dear?  In 
your  head  ? — or  chest  ?     What  is  it  ?" 

"  I  tell  you  that  I  am  ill  and 
thirsty,  and  that's  enough,"  peevishly 
answered  Sarah  Anne.  "  Go  and  get 
me  some  tea." 

"  As  soon  as  I  possibly  can,"  said 
Ethel,  soothingly.  "  There  is  no  fire 
yet.  The  maids  are  not  up.  I  do 
not  think  it  can  be  later  than  six,  by 
the  look  of  the  morning." 

"  Very  well !"  sobbed  Sarah  Anne 
— the  sobs  being  contrived  by  the 
catching  up  of  her  breath  in  temper, 
not  by  tears.  "  You  can't  call  the 
maids,  I  suppose  !  and  you  can't  put 
yourself  the  least  out  of  the  way  to 
alleviate  my  suffering  !  you  want  to 
go  to  bed  again  and  sleep  till  eight 
o'clock  !  When  I  am  dead,  you'll 
wish  you  had  been  more  like  a  sister. 
You  possess  great  rude  health  your- 
self, and  you  can  feel  no  compassion 
for  anybody  who  does  not." 

An  assertion  unjust  and  untrue : 
like  many  another,  made  by  Sarah 
Anne  Grame.  Ethel  did  not  possess 
6  rude  health,"  though  she  was  not, 


like  her  sister,  always  ailing  ;  and  she 
felt  far  more  compassion  than  Sarah 
Anne  deserved. 

"  I  will  see  what  I  can  do,"  she 
gently  said.  "  You  shall  soon  have 
some  tea." 

Passing  into  her  own  room,  Ethel 
hastily  dressed  herself :  when  Sarah 
Anne  was  in  one  of  her  exacting 
moods,  there  could  be  no  more  bed  for 
Ethel.  "  I  wonder,"  she  thought  to 
herself,  "  whether  I  could  not  get  up 
the  fire  without  calling  the  servants  ? 
They  had  so  hard  a  day's  work  yes- 
terday, for  mamma  kept  them  both  at 
the  cleaning  from  morning  till  night. 
Yes  :  if  I  can  only  find  the  sticks,  I'll 
make  the  fire." 

She  went  down  to  the  kitchen, 
hunted  up  what  was  required,  laid 
the  fire  and  lighted  it.  It  did  not 
burn  up  well.  She  thought  the  sticks 
must  be  damp,  and  she  got  the  bel- 
lows. There  she  was  on  her  knees, 
blowing  at  the  fagots,  and  sending 
the  blaze  up  amidst  the  coal,  when 
some  one  came  into  the  kitchen. 

"  Miss  Ethel  !" 

It  was  one  of  the  servants,  Eliza- 
beth. She  had  heard  moving  in  the 
house,  and  had  risen.  Ethel  explained 
that  her  sister  felt  ill,  and  tea  was 
wanted. 

"  Why  did  you  not  call  us,  Miss 
Ethel  ?" 

"  You  went  to  rest  late,  Elizabeth. 
See  how  well  I  have  made  the  fire  !" 

"  It  is  not  ladies'  work,  miss." 

"  I  think  ladies  should  put  on  gloves 
when  they  undertake  it,"  merrily 
laughed  Ethel.  "  Look  at  my  black 
hands." 

"  What  would  Mr.  Godolphin  say 
if  he  saw  you  now,  Miss  Ethel  ? 
Kneeling  down  upon  the  bricks, 
lighting  a  fire  !" 

"Mr.  Godolphin  would  say  I  was 
doing  right,  Elizabeth,"  returned 
Ethel,  a  shade  of  reproof  in  her  firm 
tone,  though  the  allusion  caused  the 
color  to  mantle  in  her  cheeks.  The 
girl  had  been  with  them  some  time, 
and  assumed  more  license  than  a  less 
respected  servant  would  have  been 
allowed  to  do. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  I)  Y  A  T . 


53 


The  tea  ready,  Ethel  carried  a  cup 
of  It  to  her  sister,  with  a  slice  of  toast 
that  they  had  made.  Sarah  Anne 
drank  the  tea  at  a  draught,  but  she 
turned  with  a  shiver  from  the  toast. 
She  seemed  to  be  shivering  much. 

"  Who  was  so  stupid  as  to  make 
that  ?  You  might  know  I  should  not 
eat  it.     I  am  too  ill." 

Ethel  began  to  think  that  she  looked 
unusually  ill.  Her  face  was  flushed, 
shivering  though  she  was,  her  lips 
were  dry,  her  heavy  eyes  were  un- 
naturally bright.  She  gently  laid  her 
hands,  washed  from  the  "  black,"  upon 
her  sister's  brow.  It  felt  burning, 
and  Sarah  Anne  screamed  out. 

"  Do  keep  your  hands  away  !  My 
head  is  splitting  with  pain." 

Involuntarily  Ethel  thought  of  the 
fever,  the  danger,  from  which,  they 
had  been  reckoning  to  have  passed. 
It  was  a  low  sort  of  typhus  which 
had  prevailed  ;  not  very  extensively, 
and  chiefly  amidst  the  poor:  the  chief 
fear  had  been,  lest  it  should  turn  to  a 
more  malignant  species.  About  half 
a  dozen  deaths  had  taken  place,  in  the 
whole. 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  bathe  your 
forehead  with  water,  Sarah  Anne  ?" 
asked  Ethel,  kindly.  "  Or  to  get  you 
some  eau  de  Cologne  ?" 

"  I  would  like  you  to  stop  till  things 
are  asked  for,  and  not  to  worry  me," 
retorted  Sarah  Anne. 

Ethel  sighed.  Not  for  the  cross 
temper  :  Sarah  Anne  was  always  cross 
in  illness  :  but  for  the  suffering  she 
thought  she  saw,  and  the  half  doubt, 
half  dread,  which  had  arisen  within 
her.  "  I  think  I  had  better  call 
mamma,"  she  deliberated  to  herself. 
"  Though,  if  she  sees  nothing  unusual 
the  matter  with  Sarah  Anne,  she  will 
only  be  angry  with  me." 

Proceeding  to  her  mother's  cham- 
ber, Ethel  knocked  softly.  Lady  Sarah 
slept  still,  but  the  entrance  aroused  her. 

"  Mamma,  I  do  not  like  to  disturb 
you  ;  I  was  unwilling  to  do  it ;  but 
Sarah  Anne  is  ill." 

"  111  again  !  And  only  last  week 
she  was  in  bed  three  days  !  Poor 
dear  sufferer  1     Is  it  her  chest  ?" 


"  Mamma,  she  seems  unusually  ill. 
Otherwise  I  should  not  have  disturbed 
you.  I  feared — I  thought — you  will 
be  angry  with  me  if  I  say,  perhaps  ?" 

"  Say  what  ?  Don't  stand  like  a 
statue,  Ethel." 

Ethel  dropped  her  voice.  "Dear  mam- 
ma, suppose  it  should  be  the  fever  ?" 

Eor  one  startling  moment,  Lady 
Sarah  felt  as  if  a  dagger  was  piercing 
her :  the  next,  she  turned  upon  Ethel. 
Fever  for  Sarah  Anne  !  how  dared  she 
prophesy  it  ?  A  low  common  fever, 
confined  to  the  poor  and  the  town, 
and  which  had  gone  away  ;  or,  all 
but !  Was  it  likely  to  turn  itself  back 
again  and  come  up  here  to  attack  her 
darling  child  !  What  did  Ethel  mean 
by  it? 

Ethel,  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  said 
she  hoped  it  would  prove  to  be  only 
a  common  headache ;  that  it  was  her 
love  for  Sarah  Anne  which  awoke  her 
fears.  Lady  Sarah  proceeded  to  the 
sick-chamber ;  and  Ethel  followed. 
Her  ladyship  was  not  accustomed  to 
obseiwe  caution,  and  she  spoke  freely 
of  "the  fever"  before  Sarah  Anne ; 
apparently  for  the  purpose  of  casting 
blame  at  Ethel. 

Sarah  Anne  did  not  catch  the  fear  : 
she  ridiculed  Ethel  as  her  mother  did. 
For  some  hours  Lady  Sarah  did  not 
catch  it,  either.  She  would  have 
summoned  medical  advice  at  first,  but 
that  Sarah  Anne,  in  her  peevishness, 
protested  she  would  not  have  a  doc- 
tor. Later  she  grew  worse,  and  Mr. 
Snow  was  sent  for.  You  saw  him  in 
his  gig  hastening  to  the  house. 

Lady  Sarah  came  forward  to  receive 
him,  Ethel,  full  of  anxiety,  near  her. 
She  was  a  thin  woman,  with  a  sh lev- 
elled face  and  a  sharp  red  nose,  her 
grey  hair  banded  plainly  under  a  close 
white  net  cap.  Her  style  of  head- 
dress never  varied.  It  consisted  al- 
ways of  a  plain  net  cap  with  a  quilled 
net  border,  trimmed  with  the  ribbon 
that  is  called  "love."  Her  black 
dresses  she  had  not  put  off  since  the 
death  of  Captain  Grame  ;  and  intended 
never  to  do  so. 

She  grasped  the  arm  of  Mr.  Snow. 
"  You  must  save  my  child  !" 


34 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


"  Higher  aid  permitting  me,"  the 
surgeon  answered.  "  Why  do  you 
assume  it  to  be  the  fever  ?  For  the 
last  six  weeks  I  have  been  summoned 
by  timid  parents  to  a  score  of  '  fever' 
cases  ;  and  when  I  have  arrived,  in 
hot  haste,  they  have  turned  out  to  be 
no  fever  at  all." 

"  This  is  the  fever,"  replied  Lady 
Sarah.  "  Had  I  been  more  willing  to 
admit  that  it  was,  you  would  have 
been  sent  for  hours  ago.  It  was 
Ethel's  fault.  She  suggested  at  day- 
light that  it  might  be  the  fever  ;  and 
it  made  my  darling  girl  so  angry  that 
she  forbid  my  sending  for  advice. 
But  she  is  worse  now.  Come  and  see 
her." 

Mr.  Snow  laid  his  hand  upon  Ethel's 
head  with  a  fond  gesture,  as  he  fol- 
lowed Lady  Sarah.  All  Prior's  Ash 
loved  Ethel  Grame. 

Tossing  about  her  uneasy  bed,  her 
face  crimson,  her  hair  floating  untidily 
round  it,  lay  Sarah  Anne,  shivering 
still.  The  doctor  gave  one  glance  at 
her :  it  was  quite  enough  to  satisfy 
him  that  Lady  Sarah  was  not  mis- 
taken. 

"  Is  it  the  fever  ?"  impatiently  asked 
Sarah  Anne,  unclosing  her  hot  eye- 
lids. 

"  If  it  is,  we  must  drive  it  away," 
said  the  doctor,  cheerily. 

"Why  should  the  fever  have  come 
to  me  ?"  she  rejoined,  her  tone  one  of 
rebellion. 

"  Why  did  I  get  thrown  from  my 
horse  last  year,  and  break  my  arm  ?" 
returned  Mr.  Snow.  "  These  untoward 
things  do  come  to  us." 

"  To  break  an  arm  is  nothing, — 
people  always  get  well  from  that," 
irritably  answered  Sarah  Anne. 

"  And  we  will  get  you  well  from 
the  fever,  if  you  will  be  quiet  and 
reasonable." 

"  I  am  so  hot !  My  head  is  so 
heavy  !" 

Mr.  Snow,  who  had  called  for 
water  and  a  glass,  wras  mixing  up  a 
white  powder  which  he  had  produced 
from  his  pocket.  She  drank  it  with- 
out opposition,  and  then  he  lessened 
the   weight   of  the   bed-clothes,   and 


afterward  turned  his  attention  to  the 
chamber.  It  was  close  and  hot ;  and 
the  sun,  which  had  just  burst  forth 
brightly  from  the  grey  skies,  shone 
full  upon  it. 

"  You  have  got  that  chimney  stuffed 
up  !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Sarah  Anne  will  not  allow  it  to 
be  open,"  said  Lady  Sarah.  "  She  is 
sensitive  to  cold,  dear  child,  and  feels 
the  slightest  draught." 

Mr.  Snow  walked  to  the  chimney, 
turned  up  his  coat  cuff  and  wristband, 
and  pulled  down  a  bag  filled  with 
shavings.  Some  soot  came  with  it, 
and  covered  his  hand  ;  but  he  did  not 
mind  that.  He  wras  as  little  given  to 
ceremony  as  Lady  Sarah  to  caution, 
and  he  went  leisurely  up  to  the  wash- 
hand-stand  to  wash  it  off. 

"  Now,  if  I  catch  that  bag,  or  any 
other  bag  up  there  again,  obstructing 
the  air,  I  shall  pull  down  the  bricks 
next  time,  and  make  a  good  big  hole 
that  the  sky  can  be  seen  through. 
Of  that  I  give  you  notice,  my  lady." 

He  next  pulled  the  window  down 
at  the  top,  behind  the  blind  ;  but  the 
chamber,  at  its  best,  did  not  find 
favor  with  him.  "It  is  not  airy ;  it 
is  not  cool,"  he  said.  "  Is  there  not 
a  better-ventilated  room  in  the  house  ? 
If  so,  she  shall  be  moved  to  it." 

"  My  room  is  a  cool  one,"  inter- 
posed Ethel,  eagerly.  "  The  sun 
never  shines  upon  it,  Mr.  Snow." 

It  would  appear  that  Ethel's  thus 
speaking  must  have  reminded  Mr. 
Snow  that  she  was  present.  In  the 
unceremonious  fashion  that  he  had 
laid  his  hands  upon  the  chimney-bag, 
he  now  laid  them  upon  her  shoulders, 
and  marshalled  her  outside  the  door. 

"  You  go  down-stairs,  Miss  Ethel. 
And  do  not  come  within  a  mile  of  this 
chamber  again,  until  I  give  you 
leave." 

But  meanwhile,  Sarah  Anne  was 
talking  also,  imperiously  and  fret- 
fully. "  I  will  not  be  moved  into 
Ethel's  room  !  It  is  not  furnished 
with  half  the  comforts  of  mine.  It  has 
only  a  bit  of  bedside  carpet  !  I  will 
not  go  there,  Mr.  Snow." 

"  Now  look  you  here,  Miss  Sarah 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT 


Oo 


Anne  !"  said  the  surgeon,  firmly,  "  I 
am  responsible  for  getting  you  well 
out  of  this  illness ;  and  I  shall  take 
my  own  way  to  do  it.  If  not,  if  I  am 
to  be  contradicted  at  every  suggestion, 
Lady  Sarah  can  summon  somebody 
else  to  attend  you  :  I  will  not  under- 
take it." 

"  My  darling,  you  shall  not  be 
moved  to  Ethel's  room,"  cried  my 
lady,  eoaxingly  :  "you  shall  be  moved 
to  mine.  It  is  larger  than  this,  you 
know,  Mr.  Snow,  .  with  a  thorough 
draught  through  it,  if  you  choose  to 
put  the  windows  and  door  open." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Snow.  ''Let 
me  find  her  in  it  when  I  come  up 
again  this  evening.  And  if  there's  a 
carpet  on  the  floor,  take  it  up.  Car- 
pets never  were  intended  for  bed- 
rooms." 

He  went  into  one  of  the  sitting- 
rooms  with  Lady  Sarah  when  he 
descended.  "  What  do  you  think  of 
the  case  ?"  she  eagerly  asked. 

"  There  will  be  some  difficulty  with 
it,"  was  his  candid  reply.  "  Lady 
Sarah,  her  hair  must  come  off." 

"  Her  hair  come  off!"  uttered  Lady 
Sarah,  aghast.  "  That  it  never  shall  1 
She  has  the  most  lovely  hair !  What 
is  Ethel's  hair,  compared  to  hers  ?" 

"  You  heard  the  determination  I 
expressed,  Lady  Sarah,"  he  quietly 
said. 

"  But  Sarah  Anne  will  never  allow 
it  to  be  done,"  she  returned,  shifting 
the  ground  of  remonstrance  from  her 
own  shoulders.  "And,  to  do  it  in 
opposition,  would  be  enough  to  kill 
her." 

"  It  will  not  be  done  in  opposition," 
he  answered.  "  She  will  be  un- 
conscious before  it  is  attempted." 

Lady  Sarah's  heart  sank.  "  You 
anticipate  that  she  will  be  dangerously 
ill !" 

"In  these  cases  there  is  always 
danger,  Lady  Sarah.  But  worse 
cases  than — as  I  believe — hers  will  be, 
have  got  well  over  it." 

"  If  I  lose  her,  I  shall  die  myself!" 
she  passionately  uttered.  "  And,  if 
she  is  to  have  it  badly,  she  will  die  ! 


Remember,  Mr.  Snow,  how  weak  she 
has  always  been  !" 

"  We  sometimes  find  that  the  weak 
of  constitution  battle  best  with  an 
epidemic,"  he  replied.  "  Many  a 
hearty  one  has  it  struck  down  and 
taken  off ;  many  a  sickly  one  has 
struggled  through  it,  and  been  the 
better  afterward." 

"Every  thing  shall  be  done  as  you 
wish,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  speaking 
meekly,  in  her  great  fear. 

"  Very  well.  There  is  one  caution 
I  would  earnestly  impress  upon  you  : 
that  of  keeping  Ethel  from  the  sick- 
room." 

"But  there  is  nobody  to  whom 
Sarah  Anne  is  so  accustomed,  as  a 
nurse,"  objected  Lady  Sarah. 

"Madam!"  burst  forth  the  doctor 
in  his  heat,  "  would  you  subject  Ethel 
to  the  risk  of  taking  the  infection,  in 
deference  to  Sarah  Anne's  selfishness, 
or  to  yours  ?  Better  lose  all  the 
treasures  your  house  contains,  than 
lose  Ethel !  She  is  its  greatest  treas- 
ure." 

"  I  know  how  remarkably  prejudiced 
you  have  always  been  in  Ethel's  fa- 
vor," resentfully  spoke  Lady  Sarah. 

"  If  I  disliked  her  as  much  as  I  like 
her,  I  should  be  equally  solicitous  to 
guard  her  from  the  danger  of  infec- 
tion," said  Mr.  Snow.  "  If  you  chose 
to  put  Ethel  out  of  consideration,  you 
cannot  put  Thomas  Godolphin.  In 
justice  to  him,  she  must  be  taken  care 
of." 

Lady  Sarah  opened  her  mouth  to 
reply,  but  closed  it  again.  Strange 
words  had  been  hovering  upon  her 
lips.  "  If  Thomas  Godolphin  were 
not  blind,  his  choice  would  have  fallen 
upon  Sarah  Anne,  not  upon  Ethel." 
In  her  heart,  that  was  a  sore  topic  of 
resentment ;  for  she  was  fully  alive  to 
the  advantages  of  a  union  witk  a 
Godolphin.  Those  words  were  swal- 
lowed down,  to  give  utterance  to 
others. 

"  Ethel  is  in  the  house,  and  there- 
fore must  be  liable  to  take  the  infec- 
tion, whether  she  visits  the  chamber  or 
not.     I  cannot  fence  her  round  with 


66 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYFYAT. 


an  air-tight  wall,  so  that  not  a  breath 
of  tainted  atmophere  shall  touch  her. 
1  would  if  I  could  ;   but  I  cannot." 

"  I  would  send  her  from  the  house, 
Lady  Sarah.  At  any  rate,  I  forbid 
her  to  go  near  her  sister.  I  don't 
want  two  patients  on  my  hands, 
instead  of  one,"  he  added,  in  his 
quaint  fashion,  as  he  took  his  depart- 
ure. 

He  was  about  to  get  into  his  gig, 
when  he  saw  Mr.  Godolphin  advanc- 
ing with  a  quick  step.  "  Which  of 
them  is  it  who  is  seized  ?"  inquired 
the  latter,  as  he  came  up. 

"  Not  Ethel,  thank  goodness  !"  re- 
sponded the  surgeon.  "  It  is  Sarah 
Anne.  I  have  been  recommending 
my  lady  to  send  Ethel  from  home.  I 
should  send  her,  were  she  a  daughter 
of  mine." 

"  Is  Sarah  Anne  likely  to  have  it 
dangerously  ?" 

"  I  think  she  will.  Is  there  any 
necessity  for  your  going  to  the  house 
just  now,  Mr.  Godolphin  ?" 

Thomas  Godolphin  smiled.  "  There 
is  no  necessity  for  my  keeping  away. 
I  do  not  fear  the  fever  any  more  than 
you  do." 

He  passed  into  the  garden  as  he 
spoke,  and  Mr.  Snow  drove  away. 
Ethel  saw  him  and  came  running  out. 

"  Oh,  Thomas,  do  not  come  in  !  do 
not  come  !" 

His  only  answer  was  to  take  her 
upon  his  arm  and  enter.  He  threw 
open  the  drawing-room  window,  that 
as  much  air  might  circulate  through 
the  house  as  was  possible,  and  stood 
at  it  with  her,  holding  her  before  him. 

"  Ethel !  what  am  I  to  do  with 
you  ?" 

"  To  do  with  me  !  What  should 
you  do  with  me,  Thomas  ?" 

"  Do  you  know,  my  darling,  that  I 
cannot  afford  to  let  this  danger  touch 


you 


?>' 


I    am    not    afraid,"    she    gently 
whispered. 

He  knew  that :  she  had  a  brave, 
unselfish  heart.  But  he  was  afraid 
for  her,  for  he  loved  her  with  a  jealous 
love  :  jealous  of  any  evil  that  might 
come  too  near  her. 


"  I  should  like  to  take  you  out  ot 
the  house  with  me  now,  Ethel.  I 
should  like  to  take  you  far  from  this 
fever-tainted  town.     Will  you  come  V 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile, 
the  color  rising  in  her  face.  "  How 
could  I,  Thomas  ?" 

Anxious  thoughts  were  passing 
through  the  mind  of  Thomas  Godol- 
phin. We  cannot  put  aside  the  con- 
venances of  life,  though  there  are 
times  when  they  press  upon  us  with 
an  iron  weight.  He  would  have 
given  almost  his  own  life  to  take  Ethel 
from  that  house.  But  how  was  he  to 
do  it  ?  No  friend  would  be  likely  to 
receive  her  ;  not  even  his  own  sisters  ; 
they  would  have  too  much  dread 
of  the  infection  she  might  bring. 
He  would  fain  have  carried  her  off  to 
some  sea- breezed  town,  and  watch 
over  her  and  guard  her  there,  until 
the  danger  should  be  over.  None 
would  have  protected  her  more  honor- 
ably than  Thomas  Godolphin.  But, 
those  convenances  that  the  world  has 
to  bow  down  to  :  how  would  the  step 
have  accorded  with  them  ?  Another 
thought,  little  less  available  for  com- 
mon use,  passed  through  his  mind. 

"Listen,  Ethel,"  he  whispered.  "It 
would  be  but  getting  a  license,  and 
half  an  hour  spent  at  All  Souls'  with 
Mr.  Hastings.  It  could  be  all  done, 
and  you  away  with  me  before  night- 
fall." 

She  scarcely  understood  his  nieau- 
ing.  Then,  as  it  dawned  upon  her, 
she  bent  her  head  and  her  blushing 
face,  laughing  at  the  wild  improba- 
bility. 

"  Oh,  Thomas  !  Thomas  !  you  are 
only  joking.  What  would  people 
say?" 

"  Would  it  make  any  difference  to 
us,  what  they  said  ?" 

"  It  could  not  be,  Thomas"  she  whis- 
pered, seriously  ;  "  it  is  a  vision  im- 
possible. Were  all  other  things  meet, 
how  could  I  run  away  from  my  sister, 
on  her  bed  of  dangerous  illness,  to 
marry  you  ?" 

Ethel  was  right,  and  Thomas  Godol- 
phin felt  that  she  was.  The  conve- 
nances must  be  observed,  no  matter 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


57 


at  what  cost.  He  held  her  fondly 
against  his  heart. 

"  If  aught  of  ill  should  rise  to  you 
from  your  remaining  here,  I  shall 
blame  myself  as  long  as  life  shall  last. 
My  love  !  my  love  !" 

Mr.  Godolphin  could  not  linger. 
He  must  be  back  at  the  bank,  for 
Saturday  was  their  most  busy  day  of 
all  the  week,  it  being  market-day  at 
Prior's  Ash  :  though  he  had  snatched 
a  moment  to  quit  it  when  the  imper- 
fect news  reached  him.  George  was 
in  the  private  room  alone  when  he 
entered.  "  Shall  you  be  going  to 
Lady  Godolphin's  Folly  this  evening, 
George  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  The  Fates  permitting," replied  Mr. 
George,  who  was  buried  five  fathom 
deep  in-  business  ;  though  he  would 
have  preferred  to  be  five  fathom  deep 
in  pleasure.      "Why  ?" 

"  You  can  tell  my  father  that  I  am 
sorry  not  to  be  able  to  spend  an  hour 
with  him,  as  I  promised.  Lady 
Godolphin  will  not  thank  me  to  be 
running  from  Lady  Sarah's  house  to 
hers  just  now." 

"  Thomas,"  warmly  spoke  George, 
in  an  impulse  of  kindly  feeling,  "I  do 
hope  it  will  not  extend  itself  to  Ethel !" 

"  I  hope  not,"  fervently  breathed 
Thomas  Godolphin. 


CHAPTER   VI. 


CHARLOTTE    PAIN. 


A  fine  old  door  of  oak,  a  heavy 
door,  standing  deep  within  a  portico, 
inside  which  you  might  almost  have 
driven  a  coach-and-six,  introduced  you 
to  Ashlydyat.  The  hall  was  dai'k  and 
small,  the  only  light  admitted  to  it 
being  from  mullioned  windows  of 
Btaihed  glass.  Innumerable  passages 
branched  off  from  the  hall ;  one  pecu- 
liarity of  Ashlydyat  being  that  you 
could  scarcely  enter  a  single  room  in 
it,  but  you  must  first  go  down  a  pas- 
sage, short  or  long,  to  get  to  it.  Had 
the  house  been  designed  by  any  archi- 


tect with  a  head  upon  his  shoulders 
and  a  little  common  sense  within  it, 
he  might  have  made  a  handsome  man- 
sion of  spacious  and  noble  rooms  :  as 
it  was,  the  rooms  were  cramped  and 
narrow,  cornered  and  confined ;  and 
the  good  space  was  taken  up  by  these 
worthless  passages. 

In  the  least  sombre  room  of  the 
house,  one  with  a  large  modern  win- 
dow (put  into  it  by  Sir  George  Godol- 
phin to  please  my  lady,  just  before 
that  whim  came  into  her  head  to  build 
the  Folly),  opening  upon  a  side  gravel 
walk,  were  two  ladies,  on  the  evening 
of  this  same  Saturday.  Were  they 
sisters  ?  They  did  not  look  like  it. 
Charlotte  Pain  you  have  seen.  She 
stood  underneath  the  wax-lights  of 
the  chandelier,  tall,  commanding,  dark, 
handsome  ;  scarlet  flowers  in  her  hair, 
a  scarlet  bouquet  in  her  corsage  ;  her 
dress  a  rich  silk  of  cream  color  with 
scarlet  sprigs  upon  it.  She  had  in 
her  hand  a  small  black  dog  of  the 
King  Charles  species,  holding  him  up 
to  the  lights,  and  laughing  at  his 
anger :  he  was  snarling  fractiously, 
whether  at  the  lights  or  the  position 
might  be  best  known  to  his  mistress ; 
while  at  her  feet  barked  and  yelped  an 
ugly  Scotch  terrier,  probably  because 
he  was  not  also  held  up  :  for  dogs  are 
like  men,  and  covet  what  they  cannot 
get. 

In  a  dress  of  pink  gauze,  with  pretty 
pink  cheeks,  smooth  features,  and  hazel 
eyes,  her  hair  auburn,  interlaced  with 
pearls,  and  her  height  scarcely  reach- 
ing to  Miss  Pain's  shoulder,  was  Mrs. 
Verrall.  She  was  younger  than  her 
sister :  for  sisters  they  were  :  a  lady 
who  passed  through  life  with  easy  in- 
difference, or  appeared  to  do  so,  and 
called  her  husband  "Verrall."  She 
stood  before  the  fire,  one  of  those  de- 
licate white  Indian  screens  in  her 
hand,  to  shade  her  face  from  the  blaze. 
The  room  was  hot,  and  the  large  win- 
dow had  been  thrown  open.  So  calm 
was  the  night,  that  not  a  breath  of 
air  came  in  to  stir  the  wax-lights : 
the  wind,  which  you  heard  moaning 
round  the  rectory  of  All  Souls'  in  the 
morning,  worrying  the  leaves  and  dis- 


58 


THE     SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT 


pleasing  Mrs.  Hastings,  bad  dropped 
with  sundown  to  a  dead  calm. 

"Charlotte,  1  think  I  shall  make 
Verrall  take  me  to  town  with  him  ! 
The  thought  has  just  come  into  my 
mind." 

Charlotte  made  no  answer.  Pos- 
sibly she  did  not  catch  the  words;  for, 
the  dogs  were  barking  and  she  laugh- 
ing louder  than  ever.  Mrs.  Verrall 
stamped  her  foot  petulantly,  and  her 
voice  rang  through  the  room. 

"  Charlotte,  then  !  do  you  hear  me  ? 
Put  that  horrible  little  brute  down  : 
or  I  will  ring  for  them  to  be  taken 
away  !  One  might  as  well  keep  a 
screaming  cockatoo  !  I  say  I  have  a 
great  mind  to  go  up  to  town  with 
Yerrall." 

"Verrall  would  not  take  you,"  re- 
sponded Charlotte,  putting  her  King 
Charles  on  the  back  of  the  terrier. 

"  Why  do  you  think  that  ?" 

"  He  goes  up  for  business  only." 

"  It  will  be  so  dull  for  me,  all  alone  !" 
complained  Mrs.  Verrall.  "  You  in 
Scotland,  he  in  London,  and  I  moping 
myself  to  death  in  this  gloomy  Ash- 
lydyat  1  I  wish  we  had  never  taken 
it!" 

Charlotte  Pain  bent  her  dark  eyes 
in  surprise  upon  her  sister.  "  Since 
when  have  you  found  out  that  you 
do  not  like  Ashlydyat  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  It  is  a  gloomy 
place  inside,  especially  if  you  contrast 
it  with  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly.  And 
they  are  beginning  to  whisper  of 
ghostly  things  being  abroad  on  the 
Dark  Plain  !" 

"  For  shame,  Kate  !"  exclaimed 
Charlotte  Pain.  "  Ghostly  things  ! 
Oh,  I  see  ! — you  were  laughing." 

"  Is  it  not  enough  to  make  us  all  laugh 
— these  tales  of  the  Godolphins  ?  But 
I  shall  convert  it  into  a  pretext  for 
not  being  left  by  myself  here,  when 
you  and  Verrall  are  away.  Why  do 
you  go,  Charlotte  ?"  Mrs.  Verrall 
added,  in  a  tone  which  had  changed 
to  marked  significance.  "  It  is  waste 
of  time." 

The  color  heightened  in  Charlotte 
Pain's  cheeks.  She  would  not  take 
the  innuendo.     "I  never  was  in  Scot- 


laid,  and  shall  like  the  visit,"  she  said, 
picking  up  the  King  Charles  again, 
"  I  enjoy  fine  scenery :  you  do  not 
care  for  it." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Verrall,  "  it  is  the 
scenery  that  draws  you,  is  it  ?  Take 
you  care,  Charlotte." 

"  Care  of  what  ?" 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  You  must  not 
fly  into  one  of  your  tempers  and  pull 
my  hair.  You  are  growing  too  fond 
of  George  Godolphin." 

Charlotte  Pain  gave  no  trace  of 
"  flying  into  a  temper;"  she  remained 
perfectly  cool  and  calm.  "  Well  ?" 
was  all  she  said,  her  lip  curling. 

"  If  it  would  bring  you  any  good  ; 
if  it  would  end  in  your  becoming  Mrs. 
George,  I  should  say,  well;  go  into 
it  with  your  whole  heart  and  energy. 
But  it  will  not  end  so :  and  your  time 
and  plans  are  wasted." 

"  Has  he  told  you  so  much  ?"  ironi- 
cally asked  Charlotte. 

"  Nonsense !  There  was  one  in 
possession  of  the  field  before  you, 
Charlotte, — if  my  observation  goes  for 
any  thing.  She  will  win  the  race ; 
you  will  not  even  be  in  at  the  distance 
chair.     I  speak  of  Maria  Hastings." 

"  You  speak  of  what  you  know 
nothing,"  carelessly  answered  Char- 
lotte Pain,  a  self-satisfied  smile  upon 
her  lips. 

"  Very  well.  When  it  is  all  over, 
and  you  find  the  time  has  been  wasted, 
do  not  say  I  never  warned  you. 
George  Godolphin  may  be  a  prize 
worth  entering  the  lists  for  ;  I  do  not 
say  he  is  not :  but  there  is  no  chance 
of  your  winning  him." 

Charlotte  Pain  tossed  the  dog  up- 
wards and  caught  him  as  he  descended, 
a  strange  look  of  triumph  on  her  brow. 

"And — Charlotte,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Verrall,  in  a  lower  tone,  "there  is  a 
proverb,  you  know,  about  two  stools. 
We  may  fall  to  the  ground  if  we  try 
to  sit  upon  them  both  at  once.  How 
would  Dolf  like  this  expedition  to 
Scotland,  handsome  George  being  in 
it?" 

Charlotte's  eyes  flashed  now.  "  1 
care  no  more  for  Dolf  than  I  care  foi 
— not  half  so  much  as  I  care  for  this 


THE    S  EI  A  DOW     OP     ASIlLYDiTAT 


59 


poor  little  brute.     Don't  bring  up  Dolf 
to  me,  Kate." 

"As^you  please.  I  would  not  mix 
myself  up  with  jour  private  affairs 
for  the  world.  Only  a  looker-on 
sometimes  sees  more  than  those  en- 
gaged in  the  play." 

Crossing  the  apartment,  Mrs.  Ver- 
rall  traversed  the  passage  that  led 
from  it,  and  opened  the  door  of  another 
room.  There  sat  her  husband  at  the 
dessert-table,  drinking  his  wine  alone, 
and  smoking  a  cigar.  He  was  a 
slight  man,  double  the  age  of  his 
wife,  his  hair  and  whiskers  yellow, 
and  his  eyes  set  deep  in  his  head  ; 
rather  a  good-looking  man  on  the 
whole,  but  a  very  silent  one.  "  1 
want  to  go  to  London  with  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Verrall. 

"  You  can't,"  he  answered. 

She  advanced  to  the  table  and  sat 
down  near  him.  "  There's  Charlotte 
going  one  way,  and  you  another — " 

"  Don't  stop  Charlotte,"  he  inter- 
rupted, with  a  meaning  nod. 

"And  I  must  be  left  in  the  house  by 
myself;  to  the  ghosts  and  dreams  and 
shadows  they  are  inventing  about  that 
Dark  Plain.  I  will  go  with  you, 
Verrall." 

"  I  should  not  take  you  with  me  to 
save  the  ghosts  running  off  with 
you,"  was  Mr.  Verrall's  answer,  as 
he  pressed  the  ashes  from  his  cigar 
on  a  pretty  shell,  set  in  gold.  "  I  go 
up  incog,  this  time." 

"  Then  I'll  fill  the  house  with  guests," 
she  petulantly  said. 

"  Fill  it,  and  welcome,  if  you  like, 
Kate,"  he  replied.  "  But  to  go  to 
London,  you  must  wait  for  another 
opportunity. 

"  What  a  hateful  thing  business  is  ! 
I  wish  it  had  never  been  invented  !" 

"A  great  many  more  wish  the 
same, — and  have  more  cause  to  wish 
it  than  you,"  he  dryly  answered.  "  Is 
tea  ready  ?" 

Mrs.  Verrall  returned  to  the  room 
she  had  left,  to  order  it  in.  Charlotte 
Pain  was  then  standing  outside  the 
large  window,  leaning  against  its 
frame,  the  King  Charles  lying  quietly 


in  her  arms,  and  her  own  ears  on  the 
alert,  for  she  thought  she  heard  ad- 
vancing footsteps  :  and  they  seemed 
to  be  stealthy  ones.  The  thought — 
or,  perhaps,  the  wish — that  it  might 
be  George  Godolphin,  stealing  up  to 
surprise  her,  flashed  into  her  mind. 
She  bent  her  head  and  stroked  the 
dog,  in  the  prettiest  unconsciousness 
of  the  nearing  footsteps. 

A  hand  was  laid  upon  her  shoulder. 
"  Charlotte  !" 

She  cried  out.  A  genuine,  sharp 
cry  of  dismay,  dropped  the  King 
Charles,  and  bounded  into  the  room. 
The  intruder  followed  her. 

"Why,  Dolf!"  uttered  Mrs.  Verrall 
in  much  astonishment.     "  Is  it  you  ?" 

"  It  is  not  my  ghost,"  replied  the 
gentleman,  holding  out  his  hand.  He 
was  a  little  man  with  fair  hair,  Mr. 
Rodolf  Pain,  cousin  to  the  two 
ladies.  "Did  I  alarm  you,  Char- 
lotte ?"  . 

"Alarm  me  !"  she  angrily  uttered. 
"You  must  have  sprung  out  of  the 
earth." 

"  I  have  sprung  from  the  railway 
station.     Where  is  Verrall  ?" 

"Why have  you  come  down  so  un- 
expectedly?" exclaimed  Mrs.  Verrall. 

"  To  see  Verrall.  I  go  back  to- 
morrow." 

"  Verrall  goes  up  to-morrow  night." 

"  I  know  he  does.  And  that  is 
why  I  have  come." 

"You  might  have  waited  to  see 
him  in  London,"  said  Charlotte,  her 
equanimity  not  yet  restored. 

"  It  was  necessary  for  me  to  see 
him  before  he  reached  London.  Where 
shall  I  find  him,  Mrs.  Verrall  ?" 

"  In  the  dining-room,"  Mrs.  Verrall 
replied.  "  What  can  you  want  with 
him,  in  this  hurry  ?" 

"  Business,"  laconically  replied  Ro- 
dolf Pain,  as  he  quitted  the  room  in 
search  of  Mr.  Verrall. 

It  was  not  the  only  interruption. 
Ere  two  minutes  had  elapsed,  Lady 
Godolphin  was  shown  in,  causing  Mrs. 
Verrall  and  her  sister  nearly  as  much 
surprise  as  did  the  last  intruder.  She 
had  walked    over  from    the    Folly, 


60 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


attended  by  a  footman,  and  some 
agitation  peeped  out  through  her 
usual  eourtly  suavity  of  manner. 

"  Can  you  be  ready  to  start  with  us 
to-morruvv  morning  instead  of  Mon- 
day ?"  she  demanded  of  Charlotte 
Tain. 

"  To-morrow  will  be  Sunday  I"  re- 
turned Charlotte. 

"  The  Sabbath  was  made  for  man, 
and  not  man  for  the  Sabbath  :  remem- 
ber who  it  was  spoke  that  to  us," 
said  Lady  Godolphin,  with  some 
sternness.  "It  is  the  argument  I 
have  just  been  obliged  to  bring  for- 
ward to  Sir  George.  I  did  not  im- 
agine you  were  so  scrupulous." 

She  laid  a  stress  upon  the  "  you," 
and  a  smile  crossed  Charlotte  Pain's 
lips  :  Charlotte  was  certainly  not 
troubled  with  over-scrupulousness 
upon  these  points. 

"I  do  not  countenance  Sunday 
traveling,  if  other  days  can  be  made 
use  of,"  continued  Lady  Godolphin. 
"  But  there  are  cases  where  it  is  not 
only  necessary,  but  justifiable  :  when 
we  are  glad  to  feel  the  value  of  those 
Divine  woi'ds.  The  fever  has  broken 
out  again,  and  I  shall  make  use  of  to- 
morrow to  get  away  from  it.  We 
start  in  the  morning." 

"  I  shall  be  ready  and  willing," 
replied  Charlotte. 

"It  has  appeared  at  Lady  Sarah 
Grame's,"  added  Lady  Godolphin: 
"  one  of  the  most  unlikely  homes  it 
might  have  been  expected  to  visit. 
After  this,  none  of  us  can  feel  safe. 
Were  that  fever  to  attack  Sir  George, 
his  life,  in  his  present  reduced  state, 
would  not  be  worth  an  hour's  pur- 
chase." 

Declining  the  invitation  to  remain, 
Lady  Godolphin  prepared  to  leave 
again,  after  giving  a  few  moments, 
with  Charlotte  Pain,  to  the  settlement 
of  preliminaries  for  the  morning. 
The  dread  of  the  fever  had  been  strong 
upon  her  from  the  first;  but  never  had 
it  been  so  keen  as  now.  Some  are 
given  to  this  dread  in  an  unwonted 
degree  :  while  the  epidemic  lasts  (of 
whatever  nature  it  may  be)  they  live 
in  a  constant,  racking  state  of  fear,  of 


pain.  It  is  the  death  they  fear, — the 
being  sent  violently  on  the  unknown 
life  to  come.  I  know  but  of  one 
remedy, — to  make  peace  with  God  : 
death  or  life  are  alike  then.  Lady 
Godolphin  had  not  found  it. 

"  Will    Mr.    Hastings    permit    his 
daughter   to   travel    on   a   Sunday  ?" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Verrall,  the   idea  sud- 
denly occurring  to  her,  as  Lady  Go  < 
dolphin  was  leaving. 

"  That  is  my  business,"  was  my 
lady's  frigid  answer.  It  has  been  said 
that  she  brooked  not  interference  in 
the  slightest  degree. 

It  certainly  could  not  be  called  the 
business  of  Mr.  Hastings.  For  my 
lady  and  Maria,  and  Sir  George  and 
Charlotte  Pain,  were  far  away  the 
next  morning  from  Prior's  Ash,  before 
he  received  an  inkling  of  the  matter. 
That  graceless  George  —  much  he 
cared  about  the  sin  of  Sunday  travel- 
ing ! — attended  them  a  few  stations 
forward,  getting  back  at  night. 

"  If  I  had  but  known  of  this,  what 
a  pretext  it  would  have  been  for  keep- 
ing Maria  !"  mentally  uttered  the  dis- 
mayed rector. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BROOMHEAD. 

The  contrast  between  them  was 
great.  You  could  see  it  most  remark- 
ably as  they  sat  together  :  both  were 
beautiful,  but  of  a  different  type  of 
beauty.  There  are  some  people — and 
they  bear  a  very  large  proportion  of 
the  whole — to  whom  the  human  coun- 
tenance is  as  a  sealed  book  :  there  are 
others  for  whom  that  book  stands  open 
to  its  every  page.  The  capacit}r  of 
reading  character, — what  is  it  ?  where 
does  it  lie  ?  Phrenologists  call  it,  not 
inaptly,  comparison.  There  stands  a 
man  before  you, — a  stranger, — seen 
now  for  the  first  time ;  and  as  you 
glance  upon  him  you  involuntarily 
shrink  within  yourself,  and  trench  im- 
aginary walls  round  about  you,  and 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


61 


say,  That  man  is  a  bad  man.  Your  eyes 
fall  upon  another, — equally  estrange*, 
until  that  moment, — and  your  honest 
heart  flows  out  to  him  ;  you  could  ex- 
tend to  him  the  hand  of  confidence 
there  and  then,  for  that  man's  counte- 
nance is  an  index  of  his  nature,  and 
you  kiioio  that  you  may  trust  him  to 
the  death.  In  what  part  of  the  face 
does  this  tell-tale  index  seat  itself? 
In  the  eyes  ?  in  the  mouth  ?  in  the 
features  separately  ?  or  in  the  whole  ? 
Certainly  in  the  whole.  To  judge  of 
temper  alone,  the  eye  and  mouth — 
provided  you  take  them  in  repose — 
are  sure  indications  ;  but  to  judge  of 
what  a  man  is,  you  must  look  to  the 
whole.  You  don't  know  precisely 
where  to  look  for  it  any  more  than 
do  those  know  who  cannot  see  it  at 
all :  you  cannot  say  it  lies  in  the  fore- 
head, or  the  eyebrows,  or  the  eyes,  or 
the  chin :  you  do  see  it, — and  that  is 
all  you  can  tell.  Beauty  and  ugliness, 
in  themselves,  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it :  an  ugly  countenance  may,  and 
often  does,  bear  its  own  innate  good- 
ness, as  certain  as  that  one  of  beauty 
sometimes  does  its  own  repulsion. 
Were  there  certain  unerring  signs  to 
judge  by,  all  the  human  race  might 
become  readers  of  character  ;  but  that 
will  never  be  so  long  as  the  world  shall 
last.  In  like  manner,  as  we  cannot 
tell  precisely  where  nature's  marks  lie, 
so  are  we  unable  to  tell  where  lies  the 
capacity  to  read  them.  Is  it  a  faculty  ? 
or  is  it  instinct  ?  This  I  do  know  :  that 
it  is  one  of  the  great  gifts  of  God. 
Where  the  power  exists  in  an  eminent 
degree,  rely  upon  it  its  possessor  is 
never  deceived  in  his  estimation  of 
character.  It  is  born  with  him  into 
the  world.  As  a  little  child  he  has 
his  likes  and  dislikes  of  persons, — and 
sometimes  may  get  whipped  for  ex- 
pressing them  too  strongly  :  .  as  he 
grows,  the  faculty — instinct, — call  it 
what  you  will — is  ever  in  exercise ; 
— at  rest  when  he  sleeps, — never  else. 
Those  who  do  not  possess  the  gift  (no 
disparagement  to  them, — they  may 
possess  others  equally  or  more  valua- 
ble) cavil  at  it, — laugh  at  it, — do  not 
believe  in  it.     Read  what  people  are 


by  the  face  ?  Moonshine  ! — they  know 
better.     Others,  who  allow  the   fact, 
have  talked  of  "  reducing  it  to  a  sci- 
ence,"— whatever  that  may  mean, — 
and  of  teaching  it  to  the  world,  as  we 
teach  the  classics  to  our  boys.  It  may 
be  done,  say  they.     Possibly.     I  am 
not  going  to  dispute  it.     We  all  ac- 
knowledge the  wonders  of  this  most 
wonderful  age.     Fishes  are  made  to 
talk  ;  fleas  to  comport  themselves  as 
gentlemen  ;    monkeys  are  discovered 
to  be  men, — or  men,  monkeys, — which 
is  it  ?  a  shirt  is  advertised  to  be  made 
complete    in   four   minutes   (buttons, 
warranted  fast,  included)  by  the  new 
sewing-machine ;  we  send   ourselves 
in  photograph  to  make  morning-calls  ; 
the   opposite  ends  of  the  world   are 
brought  together  by  electric  telegraph ; 
chloroform  has  rendered  the  surgeon's 
knife  something  rather  agreeable  than 
otherwise  ;  we  are  made  quite  at  home 
with  "  spirits,"  and  ghosts  are  reduced 
to  a  theory ; — not  to  speak  of  those 
other  discoveries  connected  with  the 
air,  earth,  and  water,  which  it  would- 
require  an  F.R.S.  to  descant  upon, — 
wonderful  discoveries  of  a  wonderful 
age  !      Compare  the  last  fifty  years 
with  the  previous  fifty, — when  people 
made  their  wills  before  going  to  Lon- 
don, and  flocked  to  the  show  at  the 
fair  and  saw  the  learned  pig  point  out 
the  identical  young  woman  who  had 
had  the  quarrel  with  her  sweetheart 
the  previous   Sunday  afternoon  I     It 
is  not  my  province  to  dispute  these 
wonders.     They  may,  or  may  not,  be 
facts  ;  but  when  you  come  to  talk  of 
reducing  this  great  gift  to  a  "  science," 
the  result  will  be  a  failure.     Try  and 
do  so.     Make  a  school   for  it ;  give 
lectures ;    write   books ;   beat  it  into 
heads  :  and  then  say  to  your  pupils, 
"Now  you  are  finished  :  go  out  into 
the  world  and  use  your  eyes  and  read 
your    fellow-men."      And   the   pupil 
will,    perhaps,   think    he   does    read 
them ;  but  as  the  first  deduction  he 
draws,  so  will  be  the  last, — wrong. 
Neither  art  nor  science  can  teach  it ; 
neither  man  nor  woman  can  make  it 
theirs  by  any  amount  of  labor  :  where 
the  faculty  is  not  theirs  by  divine  gift, 


62 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


it  cannot  be  made  to  exist  by  human 
skill. 

A  reader  of  character  would  have 
noted  the  contrast  between  those  two 
young  ladies  as  they  stood  there :  he 
would  have  trusted  the  one  ;  he  would 
not  have  trusted  the  other.  And  yet 
Charlotte  Pain  had  her  good  qualities  : 
kind-hearted  in  the  main,  liberal-na- 
tured,  pleasant-tempered,  of  a  spirit 
firm  and  resolute,  fit  to  battle  with 
the  world,  and  to  make  good  her  own 
way  in  it :  but  not  truthful ;  not  high 
principled ;  not  one  whom  I,  had  I 
been  George  Godolphin,  would  have 
chosen  for  my  wife,  or  for  my  bosom 
friend. 

Maria  Hastings  was  eminent  in 
what  Charlotte  Pain  lacked.  Of  rare 
integrity ;  of  high  principle ;  gentle 
and  refined  ;  incapable  of  deceit ;  and 
with  a  loving  nature  that  could  be 
true  unto  death  !  But  she  was  a  very 
child  in  the  ways  of  the  world ;  timid, 
irresolute,  unfit  to  battle  with  its  cares ; 
swayed  easily  by  those  she  loved  ;  and 
all  too  passionately  fond  of  George 
Godolphin.  Look  at  them  both  now, 
— Charlotte,  with  her  marked,  brilliant 
features;  her  pointed  chin,  telling  of 
self-will;  her  somewhat  full,  red  lips; 
the  pose  of  her  head  upon  her  tall, 
firm  form ;  her  large  eyes,  made  to 
dazzle,  more  than  to  attract :  her  per- 
fectly self-possessed,  not  to  say  free 
manners  ; — all  told  of  power ;  but  not 
of  innate  refinement.  Maria  had  too 
much  of  this  refinement, — if  such  a 
thing  may  be  said  of  a  young  and 
gentle  lady.  She  was  finely  and  sensi- 
tively organized ;  considerate  and  gen- 
tle. It  would  be  impossible  for  Maria 
Hastings  to  hurt  wilfully  the  feelings 
of  a  fellow-creature :  to  the  poorest 
beggar  in  the  street  she  would  have 
been  courteous,  considerate,  almost 
humble ;  not  so  much  as  a  word  of 
scorn  could  she  cast  to  another,  even 
in  her  inmost  heart.  The  very  forma- 
tion of  her  hands  would  betray  how 
sensitive  and  refined  was  her  nature  ; 
and  that  is  another  thing  which  bears 
its  own  character, — the  hand, — if  you 
know  how  to  read  it.  Her  hands 
were  of  exceeding  beauty, — long,  slen- 


der, taper  fingers,  of  delicate  aspect  in 
a  physical  point  of  view.  Every  mo- 
tion of  those  hands — and  they  were 
ever  restless — was  as  a  word  ;  every 
unconscious,  nervous  movement  of  the 
frail,  weak-looking  fingers  had  its  pe- 
culiar characteristic.  Maria  Hastings 
had  been  accused  of  being  vain  of  her 
hands  ;  of  displaying  them  more  than 
was  needful ;  but  the  accusation,  en- 
tirely untrue,  was  made  by  those  who 
understood  her  but  little,  and  her 
hands  less.  Such  hands  are  rare: 
and  it  is  as  well  they  are  so  :  for  they 
indicate  a  nature  far  removed  from 
the  common, — timid,  intellectual,  and 
painfully  sensitive,  which  the  rude 
world  can  neither  understand,  nor — 
perhaps — love.  The  gold  too  much 
refined  is  not  fitted  for  ordinary  uses. 
Charlotte  Pain's  hands  were  widely 
different :  firm,  plump,  white ;  not 
small,  and  never  moving  unconsciously 
of  themselves. 

These  pretty  hands  resting  upon 
her  knee,  sat  Maria  Hastings,  doing 
nothing.  Maria — I  grieve  to  have  it 
to  say  of  her  in  this  very  utilitarian 
age — was  rather  addicted  to  doing 
nothing.  In  her  home,  the  rectory, 
Maria  had  got  reproved  on  that  score 
more  than  on  any  other.  It  is  ever 
so  with  those  who  live  much  in  the 
inward  life.  Maria  would  fall  into  a 
train  of  thought — and  be  idle.  She 
was  not  very  strong  of  frame,  and  to 
such,  rest  is  a  boon  inconceivable. 
The  country  lad  said,  if  he  were  king, 
he  would  sit  upon  a  stile  and  eat  fat 
bacon  all  day.  It  was  his  best  notion 
of  enjoyment.  Charlotte  Pain's  might 
have  been,  the  galloping  over  the 
country  on  a  thorough-bred  steed, 
George  Godolphin  by  her  side :  or 
some  other  cavalier  equally  attractive 
in  himself,  and  equally  given  to  display 
admiration  for  her  attractions.  Maria's 
ideal,  would  have  been,  to  sit  under 
the  shade  of  trees,  sheltered  from  the 
noonday  sun,  or  by  the  trellised  honey- 
suckle, in  the  waning  twilight :  at 
rest ;  doing  nothing  ;  except  listening 
to  the  sweet  words  of  George  Godol- 
phin. For  her  there  was  "  but  one 
beloved  face  on  earth ;"  and  that  one 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


63 


she  would  have  liked  to  be  "  always 
shining  on  hei\" 

Master  Reginald  Hastings  would 
have  lost  his  bet, — that  Godolphin 
would  be  in  Scotland  a  week  after  they 
got  there, — had  he  found  anybody  to 
take  it.  Ten  or  eleven  days  had 
elapsed,  and  no  George  had  come,  and 
no  news  of  his  intention  to  come.  It 
was  not  for  this,  to  be  moped  to  death 
in  an  old  Scotch  country-house,  that 
Charlotte  Pain  had  accepted  the  in- 
vitation of  Lady  Godolphin.  Careless 
George — careless  as  to  the  import  any 
of  his  words  might  bear — had  said  to 
her,  when  they  were  talking  of  Scot- 
land, "  I  wish  you  were  to  be  of 
the  party, — to  help  us  while  away  the 
dull  days."  Mr.  George  had  spoken 
in  gallantry — he  was  too  much  inclined 
so  to  speak  ;  not  only  to  Charlotte — 
without  ever  dreaming  that  his  wish 
would  be  fulfilled  literally.  But,  when 
Lady  Godolphin  afterwards  gave  the 
invitation, — Sir  George  had  remarked 
aloud  at  the  family  dinner-table  that 
Miss  Pain  fished  for  it, — Charlotte 
accepted  it  with  undisguised  pleasure. 
In  point  of  fact,  Mr.  George,  had  the 
choice  been  given  him,  would  have 
preferred  having  Maria  Hastings  to 
himself  there. 

But  he  did  not  come.  Eleven  days, 
and  no  George  Godolphin  ;  they  were 
still  alone.  Charlotte  began  to  lay 
mental  plans  for  the  arrival  of  some 
sudden  telegraphic  message,  demand- 
ing her  immediate  return  to  Prior's 
Ash ;  and  Maria  could  only  hope, 
and  look,  and  long  in  secret. 

It  was  a  gloomy  day  ;  not  rainy, 
but  enveloped  in  mist,  almost  as  bad 
as  rain.  They  had  gone  out  together, 
after  luncheon,  the  two  yonng  ladies, 
but  the  weather  drove  them  in  again. 
Charlotte  was  restless  and  cross.  She 
stirred  the  fire  as  if  she  had  a  spite 
against  it ;  she  dashed  off  a  few  bars 
at  the  piano,  on  which  instrument  she 
was  a  skillful  player  ;  she  cut  half  the 
leaves  of  a  new  periodical  and  then 
flung  it  from  her  ;  she  admired  her- 
self before  the  pier-glass ;  she  sat 
down  opposite  Maria  Hastings  and 
her    calm    stillness ;    and    now    she 


jumped  up  again  and  violently  rang  the 
bell,  to  order  her  desk  to  be  brought. 
Maria  roused  herself  from  her  reverie. 

"  Charlotte,  what  is  the  matter  ? 
One  would  think  you  had  St.Vitus's 
dance." 

"  So  I  have, — if  to  shake  all  over 
with  fidgets  is  to  have  it.  How  you 
can  sit  so  calm,  so  unmoved,  is  a 
marvel  to  me.  Maria,  if  I  were  to  be 
another  ten  days  in  this  house,  I  should 
go  mad." 

"  Why  did  you  come  ?" 

"  Come  !  I  thought  it  might  be  a 
pleasant  change.  Ashlydyat  gets 
gloomy  sometimes.  How  was  I  to 
know  my  lady  led  so  quiet  a  life  here  ? 
She  was  always  talking  of  '  Broom- 
head  !'  I  could  not  possibly  suppose 
it  to  be  a  dull  place  like  this  ?" 

"It  is  not  a  dull  place,  in  itself. 
The  house  and  grounds  are  charm- 
ing !" 

"  It  is  dull  for  me.  I  count  by  peo- 
ple, not  by  fine  houses  and  praised-up 
scenery.  The  few  people  who  come 
to  dine  here,  or  to  call,  are  a  set  of  old 
muffs, — neither  more  nor  less.  And 
my  lady  enjoys  their  society  better 
than  that  of  any  of  her  friends  round 
Ashlydyat." 

"It  is  easy  to  be  accounted  for," 
said  Maria.  "  They  are  her  old,  old 
friends  :  she  lived  amidst  them  for 
years  ;  all  during  the  period  of  her 
first  marriage.  I  think  to  come  again 
amongst  old  friends  from  whom  we 
live  separated,  we  must  feel  like  a 
child  going  home  from  school." 

"  Oh  dear  I"  uttered  Charlotte.  "  1 
wonder  what  fogs  were  sent  for  ?  To 
plague  us,  I  conclude." 

"  So  do  I,"  laughed  Maria.  "  I 
should  have  finished  that  sketch,  but 
for  the  fog." 

"  No  saddle-horses  !"  went  on  Char- 
lotte. "  I  shall  forget  how  to  ride. 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  a 
country-house  without  saddle-horses. 
Where  was  the  use  of  bringing  my 
new  cap  and  habit  ?  Only  to  get 
them  crushed  !" 

Maria  seemed  to  have  relapsed  into 
thought.  She  made  no  reply.  Pres- 
ently Charlotte  began  again. 


C4 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT 


"  I  wish  I  had  my  clogs  here  ! 
Lady  Godolphin  would  not  extend 
the  invitation  even  to  King  Charlie. 
She  said  she  did  not  like  dogs.  What 
a  heathen  she  must  be  !" 

"  I  do  not  like  them,"  interposed 
Maria. 

Charlotte's  eyes  flashed.  "  I  saw, 
once,  a  virago  of  a  woman  follow  a 
poor  half-starved  white  dog  out  of  a 
house,  and  she  beat  him  till  she  broke 
his  back.  I  suppose  she  did  not '  like' 
dogs  !" 

"Oh,  Charlotte  —  how  dreadful! 
Had  I  seen  that,  I  think  I  should 
never  have  been  able  to  get  it  out  of 
my  sight  1  I  cannot  understand  how 
any  one  can  be  cruel  to  dogs." 

"  You  have  just  boasted  that  you 
don't  like  them,"  said  Charlotte,  ironi- 
cally,    "  Why  don't  you  ?" 

"  I  suppose  chiefly  because  I  have 
not  been  made  familiar  with  them," 
replied  Maria.  "Papa  has  never 
suffered  a  dog  within  the  walls  of  our 
house.  Mind,  Charlotte  ;  I  do  not 
say  I  dislike  dogs  ;  I  only  say  I  do 
not  like  them.  I  neither  like  them 
nor  dislike  them." 

"  Oh  !  dogs  are  one  of  Mr.  Hast- 
ings's prejudices,  are  they  ?"  mocked 
handsome  Charlotte.  "  I  know  he 
has  some  curious  ones." 

"  Circumstances  have  made  papa 
afraid  of  dogs, — and  he  naturally 
avoids  contact  with  them,"  observed 
Maria,  her  voice  insensibly  becoming 
low.  "  One  whom  he  loved  dearly  in 
early  life,  his  companion  at  school,  his 
friend  at  college,  died  from  the  bite  of 
a  dog." 

"Some  stray,  wretched,  homeless 
animal  goaded  to  madness  by  cruelty," 
said  Charlotte.  "With  a  back  only 
half  broken  perhaps." 

"  Not  a  stray  animal ;  not  wretched ; 
it  was  his  own  pet  dog,  which  he  had 
reared  from  a  puppy." 

"  I'd  rather  pet  a  dog  than  pet  a 
child,"  exclaimed  Charlotte.  "  I  wish 
I  could  see  my  darling  pet,  King 
Charlie  !  Kate  never  mentioned  him 
ouce  in  her  letter  this  morning." 

The  words  aroused  Maria  to  anima- 
tion.    "  Did  you  receive  a  letter  this 


morning  from  Prior's  Ash  ?  You  did 
not  tell  me." 

"  Margery  brought  it  to  my  bed- 
room. It  came  last  night,  as  I  fancy, 
and  lay  in  the  letter-box.  I  do  not 
think  Sir  George  ought  to  keep  that 
letter-box  entirely  under  his  own  con- 
trol," continued  Charlotte.  "  He 
grows  forgetful.  Some  evenings  I 
know  it  is  never  looked  at." 

"  I  have  not  observed  that  Sir 
George  is  forgetful,"  dissented  Maria. 

"  You  observe  nothing.  I  say  that 
Sir  George  declines  daily :  both 
bodily  and  mentally." 

"Bodily  and  mentally!"  echoed 
Maria,  in  a  reproving  tone.  "  Char- 
lotte, what  random  things  you  say  ! 
A  stranger,  hearing  you,  might  con- 
clude Sir  George  was  childish  or 
insane." 

"  The  mental  powers  may  grow 
weak  and  decay,  but  not  always  to 
insanity.  I  do  see  a  great  difference 
in  Sir  George :  even  in  the  short 
period  that  we  have  been  here.  He 
is  not  the  man  he  was." 

"  He  has  his  business  letters  regu- 
larly ;  and  answers  them." 

"  Quite  a  farce,  the  sending  them," 
mocked  Charlotte.  "  Thomas  Godol- 
phin  is  ultra  filial.  But — to  come 
back  to  our  starting-point — I  think 
Mrs.  Verrall's  letter  must  have  lain 
in  the  box  a  day  ;  if  not  two.  She  is 
sure  to  have  written  it  on  Sunday. 
She'd  never  get  through  the  day's 
weariness,  she  says,  but  for  paying 
off  arrears  of  correspondence." 

Maria  glanced  quickly  up  ;  a  re- 
proachful glance  in  her  eye,  a  reproach- 
ful word  hovering  on  her  lips.  She 
did  not  speak  it.  "What  news  does 
Mrs.  Yerrall  give  you  ?"  she  in- 
quired. 

"  Not  much.  Sarah  Anne  Grame 
is  out  of  immediate  danger,  she  says, 
and  the  fever  has  attacked  two  or 
three  others." 

"  In  Lady  Sarah's  house  ?" 

"  Nonsense  !  No.  That  sickly  girl, 
Sarah  Anne,  took  it,  because  I-  sup- 
pose she  could  not  help  it :  but  there's 
not  much  fear  of  its  spreading  to  the 
rest  of  the  house.     If  they  had  been 


THE      SIIADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


65 


going  to  have  it,  it  would  have  shown 
its  effects  on  them  ere  this.  It  has 
crept  on  to  those  pests  of  cottages  by 
the  Pollards.  The  Bonds  are  down 
with  it  " 

"  The  worst  spot  it  could  have  got 
to  I"  exclaimed  Maria.  "  Those  cot- 
tages are  unhealthy  at  the  best  of 
times." 

"They  had  a  dinner-party  on  Sat- 
urday," continued  Charlotte. 

"At  the  cottages  ?" 

Charlotte  laughed.  "  At  Ashlydyat. 
The  Godolphins  were  there.  At  least, 
she  mentioned  Bessy,  and  your  chosen 
cavalier,  Mr.  George. 

Maria's  cheek  flushed  crimson. 
Charlotte  Pain  was  rather  fond  of  this 
kind  of  satire.  Had  she  believed  there 
was  any  thing  serious  between  George 
Godolphin  and  Maria,  she  would  have 
eaten  her  tongue  off  rather  than  allude 
to  it.  It  was  not  Charlotte's  inten- 
tion to  spare  him  to  Maria  Hastings. 

"  I  would  give  something,"  Char- 
lotte suddenly  resumed,  in  a  dreamy 
tone,  "  to  know  what  is  keeping  him 
at  Prior's  Ash.  Kate  says  not  a  word 
about  his  leaving  it :  therefore  I  con- 
clude he  has  changed  his  mind,  as  to 
coming  here." 

Maria  listened  eagerly.  In  her 
own  letters  from  home,  George  Godol- 
phin was  not  mentioned :  not  one  of  the 
inmates  of  it,  Grace,  perhaps,  excepted, 
had  ever  glanced  to  the  suspicion  that 
he  cared  for  Maria,  or  she  for  him. 
Not  coming !  her  heart  sank  within 
her. 

Charlotte  Pain  unlocked  her  desk, 
which  had  been  brought ;  read  over  a 
letter, — that  Maria  supposed  might 
be  the  one  in  question, — and  sat  down 
to  answer  it.  Maria  drew  nearer  to 
the  fire,  and  sat  looking  into  it,  her 
cheek  leaning  on  her  hand  :  sat  there 
until  the  dusk  of  the  winter's  afternoon 
fell  upon  the  room.  She  turned  to 
her  companion. 

"  Can  you  see,  Charlotte  ?" 

"Scarcely.     I  have  just  finished." 

A  few  minutes,  and  Charlotte  folded 
her  letters.  Two.  The  one  was  di- 
rected  to   Mrs.   Yerrall,  Ashlydyat ; 


the  other  to  Rodolf  Pain,  Esquire, 
London. 

"I  shall  go  up  to  dress,"  she  said, 
locking  her  desk. 

"  There's  plenty  of  time,"  returned 
Maria.  "  I  wonder  where  Sir  George 
and  Lady  Godolphin  are  !  They  did 
not  intend  to  stay  out  so  late." 

"  Oh,  when  those  ancient  codgers 
get  together,  talking  of  their  ancient 
times  and  doings,  they  take  no  more 
heed  how  the  time  goes,  than  we  do 
at  a  ball,"  carelessly  spoke  Charlotte. 

Maria  laughed.  "  Lucky  for  you, 
Charlotte,  that  Lady  Godolphin  is  not 
within  hearing.     'Ancient  codgers  !'" 

Charlotte  left  the  room,  carrying 
her  letters  with  her.  Maria  sat  on, 
some  considerable  time, — and  then  it 
occurred  to  her  to  look  at  her  watch. 
A  quarter  to  five. 

A  quarter  to  five  !  Had  she  been 
asleep  ?  No,  only  dreaming  She 
started  up,  threw  wide  the  door,  and 
was  passing  swiftly  into  the  dark 
ante-chamber.  The  house  had  not 
been  lighted,  and  the  only  light  came 
from  the  fire,  behind  Maria.  Showing 
out  herself  clearly  enough,  but  render- 
ing that  ante-chamber  particularlv 
dark  to  the  eyes.  Little  wonder,  then, 
that  she  gave  a  scream  when  she 
found  herself  caught  in  somebody's 
arms,  against  whom  she  had  nearly 
run. 

"  Is  it  you,  Sir  George  ?  I  beg 
your  pardon." 

Not  Sir  George.  Sir  George 
would  not  have  held  her  to  him  with 
that  impassioned  fervor.  Sir  George 
would  not  have  taken  those  fond 
kisses  from  her  lips.  It  was  another 
George,  just  come  in  from  his  long 
day's  journey.  He  pressed  his  face, 
cold  from  the  fresh  night  air,  upon 
her  warm  one.  "  My  dearest !  I  knew 
you  would  be  the  first  to  welcome 
me!" 

Dark  enough  around,  it  was  still ; 
but  a  light,  as  of  some  sunny  Eden, 
illumined  the  heart  of  Maria  Hastings. 
The  shock  of  joy  was  indeed  great. 
Every  vein  was  throbbing,  every  puls6 
tingling,  and  George  Godolphin,  had 


66 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


he  never  before  been  sure  that  her 
deep  and  entire  love  was  his,  must 
have  known  it  then. 

A  servant  was  heard  approaching 
with  lights.  George  Godolphin  turned 
to  the  fire,  and  Maria  turned  with  him. 

"  Did  any  of  you  expect  me  ?"  he 
inquired. 

"  Oh  no  !"  impulsively  answered 
Maria.  "  I  can  scarcely  now  believe 
that  it  is  you,  in  reality." 

He  looked  at  her  and  laughed, — his 
gay  laugh  :  as  much  as  to  say  that  he 
had  given  her  a  tolerable  proof  of  his 
reality.  She  stood,  in  her  pretty 
timid  manner,  before  the  fire,  her 
eyelids  drooping,  and  the  flame  light- 
ing up  her  fair  face. 

"Is  my  father  at  home?"  he  asked, 
taking  off  his  overcoat.  He  had 
walked  from  the  railway  station  a 
mile  or  two  distant. 

"  He  went  out  with  Lady  Godol- 
phin this  morning  to  pay  a  visit  to 
some  old  friends.  I  thought  they 
would  have  returned  long  before 
this." 

"Is  he  getting  strong,  Maria  ?" 

Maria  thought  of  what  Charlotte 
Pain  had  said,  and  hesitated.  "  He 
appears  to  me  to  be  better  than  when 
we  left  Prior's  Ash.  But  he  is  far 
from  strong." 

The  servant  finished  lighting  the 
chandelier,  and  retired.  George  Go- 
dolphin  watched  the  door  close,  and 
then  drew  Maria  in  front  of  him,  gaz- 
ing down  at  her. 

"  Let  me  look  at  you,  my  darling  ! 
Are  you  glad  to  see  me  ?" 

Glad  to  see  him  !  The  tears  nearly 
welled  up  with  the  intensity  of  her 
emotion.  "I  had  begun  to  think  you 
were  not  coming  at  all,"  she  said,  in 
a  low  tone.  "Charlotte  Pain  had  a 
letter  from  Mrs.  Verrall  this  morning, 
in  which  you  were  mentioned  as " 

Charlotte  herself  interrupted  the 
conclusion  of  the  sentence.  She  came 
in,  ready  for  dinner.  George  turned 
to  greet  her,  his  manner  warm,  his 
hands  outstretched. 

"Margery  said  Mr.  George  was 
here  1  I  did  not  believe  her,"  cried 
Charlotte,  resigning  her  hands  to  him. 


"  Did  3rou  come  on  the  telegraph- 
wires  ?" 

"They  would  not  have  brought  me 
quickly  enough  to  your  presence," 
cried  Mr.  George. 

Charlotte  laughed  gayly.  "I  was 
just  prophesying  you  would  not  come 
at  all.  Mrs.  Yerrall  did  not  give  me 
the  information  that  you  were  about 
to  start,  amidst  her  other  items  of  in- 
telligence.  Besides,  I  know  you  are 
rather  addicted  to  forgetting  your 
promises." 

"  What  items  had  Mrs.  Yerrall  to 
urge  against  me?"  demanded  George. 

"  I  forget  them  now.  Nothing,  I 
believe.     Is  Prior's  Ash  alive  still  ?" 

"  It  was,  when  I  left  it." 

"And  the  fever,  George?"  inquired 
Maria. 

"  Fever  ?  Oh,  I  don't  know  much 
about  it." 

"As'  if  fevers  were  in  his  way  I" 
ironically  cried  Charlotte  Pain.  "He 
troubles  himself  no  more  about  fevers, 
than  does  Lady  Godolphin." 

"  Than  Lady  Godolphin  would  like 
to  do,  I  suppose  you  mean,  Miss 
Pain,"  he  rejoined. 

Maria  was  looking  at  him  wistfully, 
— almost  reproachfully.  He  saw  it, 
and  turned  to  her  with  a  smile.  "  Has 
it  in  truth  attacked  the  cottages  down 
by  the  Pollards  ?"  she  asked. 

George  nodded.  He  was  not  so 
ignorant  as  he  appeared.  "Poor 
Bond  had  it  first ;  and  now  two  of  his 
children  are  attacked.  I  understand 
Mr.  Hastings  declares  it  is  a  judg- 
ment upon  the  town  for  not  looking 
better  after  the  hovels  and  the  drain- 
age." 

"  Has  Bond  recovered  ?"  asked 
Maria. 

"No." 

"  Not  recovered  ?"  she  exclaimed, 
quickly. 

"  He  is  dead,  Maria." 

She  clasped  her  hands,  shocked  at 
the  news.  "  Dead  !  Leaving  that 
large  helpless  family !  And  Sarah 
Ann  Grame  is  out  of  danger  ?' 

"  From  the  violence  of  the  fever. 
But  she  is  in  so  dangerously  weak  a 
state  from  its  effects,  that  it  will  be 


THE      SHADOW      OP     ASHLYDYAT. 


67 


next  to  a  miracle  if  she  recovers. 
Lady  Sarah  is  half  out  of  her  mind. 
She  had  prayers  put  up  for  Sarah 
Anne  on  Sunday.  Fretty  Ethel  has 
escaped  !  to  the  delight  of  Prior's 
Ash  in  general,  and  of  Thomas  in 
particular.  What  carriage  is  that?" 
suddenly  broke  off  George,  as  the 
sound  of  one  was  heard. 

It  proved  to  be  Sir  George's,  bringing 
home  himself  and  my  lady.  George 
hastened  to  meet  them  as  they  entered 
the  hall,  his  handsome  face  glowing, 
his  brown  chestnut  hair  waving,  his 
hands  held  out.     "My  dear  father!" 

The  old  knight,  with  a  surprised 
cry  of  gladness,  caught  the  hands,  and 
pressed  them  to  his  heart.  My  lady 
advanced  with  her  welcome.  She 
bent  her  tinted  cheeks  forwards,  by 
way  of  greeting,  and  Mr.  George 
touched  it  with  his  delicate  lips, — 
lightly,  as  became  its  softened  bloom. 

"  So  you  have  found  your  way  to 
us,  George  !  I  expected  you  would 
have  done  so  before." 

"  Did  you,  madam  ?" 

"Did  we!"  cried  the  knight,  taking 
up  the  word.  "  Listen  to  that  vain 
George  !  He  pretends  to  ignore  the 
fact  that  there  was  an  attraction  here. 
Had  a  certain  young  lady  remained 
at  Prior's  Ash,  I  expect  you  would 
not  have  given  us  much  of  your  com- 
pany at  Broomhead.  If  Miss  Char- 
lotte  "  \ 

"Did  you  call  me,  Sir  George?"  in- 
terrupted Charlotte,  tripping  forward 
from  the  back  of  the  hall,  where  she 
and  Maria  stood,  out  of  sight,  but 
within  hearing. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  did  not  call  you," 
replied  Sir  George  Godolphin. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A   SNAKE  IN   THE   GRASS. 

Seated  on  a  camp-stool,  amidst  a 
lovely  bit  of  woodland  scenery,  was 
Maria  Hastings.  The  day,  beautifully 
bright,  was  warm  as  one  in  Septem- 


ber,— delightful  for  the  pleasure-seek- 
ers at  Broomhead,  but  bad  for  the 
fever  at  Prior's  Ash.  Maria  was  put- 
ting some  finishing  touches  to  a  sketch, 
— she  had  taken  many  since  she  came, 
—  and  Mr.  George  Godolphin  and 
Charlotte  Pain  watched  her  as  they 
pleased,  or  took  sauntering  strolls  to 
a  distance. 

Lady  Godolphin  was  as  fond  of 
Broomhead  as  the  Godolphins  were 
of  Ashlydyat.  Certainly  Broomhead 
was  the  more  attractive  home  of  the 
two, — a  fine  house  of  exquisite  taste, 
with  modern  rooms  and  modern  em- 
bellishments :  and  when  she  invited 
the  two  young  ladies  to  accompany 
her  on  a  visit  to  it,  she  was  actuated 
as  much  by  a  sense  of  exultation  at 
exhibiting  the  place  to  them,  as  by 
a  desire  for  their  companionship,  — 
though  she  did  like  and  desire  the 
companionship.  Lady  Godolphin  — 
who  never  read  and  never  worked,  in 
short,  never  did  any  thing  —  was 
obliged  to  have  friends  with  her  to 
dissipate  her  ennui  and  cheat  time. 
She  liked  young  ladies  best ;  for  they 
did  not  interfere  with  her  own  will, 
and  were  rarely  exacting  visitors. 

But  she  required  less  of  this  com- 
panionship at  Broomhead.  There  she 
knew  everybody,  and  everybody  knew 
her.  She  was  sufficiently  familiar 
with  the  smallest  and  poorest  cottage 
to  take  an  interest  in  its  ill-doings 
and  its  short-comings,  —  at  least  as 
much  interest  as  it  was  possible  to  the 
nature  of  Lady  Godolphin  to  take. 
Old  acquaintances  dropped  in  without 
ceremony,  and  stayed  the  morning 
with  her,  gossiping  of  times  past  ami 
present;  or  she  dropped  into  their 
houses,  and  stayed  with  them.  Of 
gayety  there  was  none  :  Sir  George's 
state  of  health  forbade  it :  and  in  this 
quiet  social  intercourse — which  Char- 
lotte Pain  held  in  especial  contempt — 
the  young  visitors  were  not  wanted. 
Altogether  they  were  much  at  liberty, 
and  went  roaming  where  they  would, 
under  the  protection  of  Mr.  George 
Godolphin. 

He  had  now  been  a  week  at  Broom- 
head,— flirting  with  Charlotte,  giving 


68 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT. 


stolen  minutes  to  Maria.  A  looker-on 
might  have  decided  that  Miss  Pain 
was  the  gentleman's  chief  magnet  of 
attraction  ;  for,  in  public,  his  attentions 
were  principally  given  to  her.  She 
may  be  pardoned  for  estimating  them  at 
more  than  they  were  worth  ;  but  she 
could  very  well  have  welcomed  any 
friendly  wind  that  would  have  come  to 
waft  away  Maria,  and  to  keep  her 
away.  They  knew — those  two  girls 
— that  their  mutual  intercourse  was 
of  a  hollow  nature  :  that  their  paraded 
friendship,  their  politeness,  was  rotten 
at  the  core.  Each  was  jealous  of  the 
other ;  and  the  one  subject  which  filled 
their  minds  was  never  alluded  to  in 
their  speech.  Either  might  have  af- 
firmed to  the  other,  "You  are  aware 
that  I  watch  you  and  George :  my 
jealous  eyes  are  upon  your  every 
movement,  my  jealous  ears  are  ever 
open."  But  these  avowals  are  not 
made  in  social  life  ;  and  Charlotte  and 
Maria  observed  studied  courtesy,  mak- 
ing believe  to  be  mutually  uncon- 
scious,— knowing  all  the  while  that 
the  consciousness  existed  in  a  remark- 
able degree.  It  was  an  artificial  state 
of  things. 

"How  dark  you  are  making  those 
trees  !"  exclaimed  Charlotte  Pain. 

Maria  paused,  pencil  in  hand : 
glanced  at  the  trees  opposite,  and  at 
the  trees  on  paper.  "  Not  too  dark," 
she  said.  "  The  grove  is  a  heavy  one." 

"  What's  that  queer-looking  thing 
in  the  corner?  It  is  like  a  half-moon 
coming  down  to  pay  us  a  visit." 

Maria  held  out  her  sketch  at  arm's 
distance, — laughing  merrily  :  "  You 
do  not  understand  perspective,  Char- 
lotte.    Look  at  it  now." 

"  Not  I,"  said  Charlotte.  "  I  un- 
derstand nothing  of  the  work.  They 
tried  me  at  it  when  I  was  a  child,  but 
I  never  could  be  got  to  make  a  straight 
line  without  the  ruler.  After  all, 
where's  the  use  of  it  ?  The  best-made 
sketch  cannot  rival  its  model, — na- 
ture." 

"  But  the  sketches  serve  to  remind 
us  of  familiar  places  when  we  are  be- 
yond their  reach,"  was  Maria's  an- 
swer.    "I  like  drawing." 


"  Maria  draws  well,"  observed 
George  Godolphin,  from  his  swinging 
perch  on  the  branch  of  a  neighboring 
tree. 

She  looked  up  at  him  almost  grate- 
fully. "  This  will  be  one  of  the  best 
sketches  I  have  taken  here,"  she  said. 
"It  is  so  thoroughly  picturesque  :  and 
that  farm-house  beneath  the  hill  serves 
to  give  life  to  the  picture." 

Charlotte  Pain  cast  her  eyes  upon 
the  house  in  the  distance  over  the 
green  field,  to  which  she  had  not  be- 
fore vouchsafed  a  glance.  A  shade 
of  contempt  crossed  her  face  : 

"  Call  that  a  farm-house  !  I  should 
say  it  was  a  tumble-down  old  cot- 
tage. " 

"  It  is  large  for  a  cottage :  and  it 
has  a  barn  and  sheds  around  it,"  re- 
turned Maria.  "  I  conclude  it  was  a 
farm  some  time." 

"It  is  not  inhabited,"  said  Char- 
lotte. 

"  Oh  yes  it  is.  There  is  a  woman 
standing  at  the  door.  I  have  put  her 
in  my  sketch." 

"  And  her  pipe  also  ?"  cried  out 
George. 

"  Her  pipe  ?" 

George  took  his  own  cigar  from  his 
mouth  as  he  answered  :  "  She  is  smok- 
ing— that  woman — a  short  pipe." 

Maria  shaded  her  eyes  with  her 
hand,  and  gazed  attentively.  "  I — 
really — do — thigk — she — is  !"  she  ex- 
claimed, slowly.  "What  a  strange 
thing !" 

"A  Welshwoman  married  to  a 
Scotch  husband,  possibly,"  suggested 
Charlotte.     "The  Welsh  smoke." 

"I'll  make  her  a  Welshwoman," 
said  Maria,  gayly,  "with  a  man's 
coat,  and  a  man's  hat.  But  there's — 
there's  another  now.  George  !  it  is 
Margery  I" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  George,  composed- 
ly. "I  saw  her  go  in  half  an  hour 
ago.  How  smart  she  is  !  She  must 
be  paying  morning-visits." 

They  laughed  at  this,  and  watched 
Margery.  A  staid  woman  of  middle 
age,  who  had  been  maid  to  the  late 
Mrs.  Godolphin.  Margery  dressed 
plainly,   but   she   certainly   did   look 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T  . 


69 


smart  to-day,  as  the  sun's  dazzling 
rays  fell  upon  her.  The  sun  was  un- 
usually bright,  and  Charlotte  Pain  re- 
marked it,  saying  it  made  her  eyes 
ache. 

"  Suspiciously  bright,"  observed 
George  Godolphin. 

"  Suspiciously  ?" 

He  flirted  the  ashes  from  his  cigar 
with  his  finger.  "  Suspicions  of  a 
storm,"  he  said.  "  We  shall  have  it 
ere  long." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

He  pointed  his  hand  toward  the 
edge  of  the  horizon.  "  See  those 
clouds.  They  look  small,  inoffensive ; 
but  they  mean  mischief." 

Charlotte  Pain  strolled  away  over 
the  meadow  toward  the  cross  path 
on  which  Margery  was  advancing. 
George  Godolphin  leaped  from  his 
seat,  apparently  with  the  intention  of 
following  her.  But  first  of  all  he 
approached  Maria,  and  bent  to  look 
at  her  progress. 

"  Make  the  farm — as  you  called  it 
. — very  conspicuous,  Maria,  if  you  are 
going  to  reserve  the  sketch  as  a  me- 
mento," said  he. 

"Is  it  not  a  farm  ?" 

"  It  was,  once  ;  until  idleness  suffered 
it  to  drop  through." 

"  Why  should  I  make  it  particularly 
conspicuous  ?"  she  continued. 

There  was  no  reply,  and  she  looked 
quickly  up.  A  peculiar  expression, 
one  which  she  did  not  understand,  sat 
upon  his  face. 

"  If  we  had  a  mind  to  cheat  the 
world,  Maria,  we  might  do  so,  by 
paying  a  visit  to  that  house  ?" 

"  In  what  way  ?" 

"  I  might  take  you  in  Maria  Hast- 
ings, and  bring  you  out  Mrs.  George 
Godolphin." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  uttered, 
completely  puzzled. 

Mr.  George  laughed.  "  The  man 
who  lives  there,  Sandy  Bray,  has 
made  more  couples  one  than  a  rustic 
parson.  Some  people  call  him  a 
public  nuisance  :  others  say  he  is  a 
convenience,  it  being  three  miles  to 
the  nearest  kirk.  He  goes  by  the 
nickname  of  Minister  Bray.     Many  a 


lad  and  lassie  have  stolen  in  there, 
under  the  cover  of  the  glimmering 
twilight,  and  in  five  minutes  have 
come  forth  again,  married,  the  world 
being  none  the  wiser." 

"  Is  it  the  place  they  call  Gretna 
Green  ?"  inquired  Maria,  in  much 
astonishment. 

"  No,"  laughed  he ;  "  it  is  not 
Gretna  Green.  Only  a  place  of  the 
same  description,  equally  service- 
able." 

"  But  such  marriages  cannot  stand 
good !" 

"  Indeed  they  do.  You  have  surely 
heard  of  the  Scotch  laws  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  that  anybody  can 
marry  people  in  Scotland.  I  have 
heard  that  the  simple  declaration  of 
saying  you  take  each  other  for  man 
and  wife  constitutes  a  marriage." 

"Yes;  if  said  before  a  witness. 
Would  you  like  to  try  it,  Maria  ?" 

The  color  flushed  into  her  face  as 
she  bent  it  over  her  drawing.  She 
smiled  at  the  joke,  simply  shaking  her 
head  by  way  of  answer.  And  Mr. 
George  Godolphin  went  off,  laughing, 
lighting  another  cigar  as  he  walked. 
Overtaking  Charlotte  Pain  just  as 
Margery  came  up,  he  accosted  the 
latter. 

"How  grand  you  are,  Margery  ! 
What's  agate  ?" 

"  Grand  !"  uttered  Margery.  "  Who 
says  it  ?  What  is  there  grand  about 
me  ?" 

"  That  shawl  displays  as  many  colors 
as  the  kaleidoscope.  We  thought  it 
was  a  rainbow  coming  along.  Did  it 
arrive  express  in  a  parcel  last  night 
from  Paisley  ?" 

"  It  isn't  me  that's  got  money  to 
spend  upon  parcels  1"  retorted  Mar- 
gery. "  I  have  too  many  claims  a 
dragging  my  purse  at  both  ends,  for 
that." 

A  faithful  servant  was  Margery,  in 
spite  of  her  hard  features,  and  her 
hard  speech.  Of  scant  ceremony  she 
had  always  been,  and  of  scant  cere- 
mony she  would  remain  ;  in  fact,  she 
was  given  to  treat  the  younger 
branches  of  the  Godolphins,  Mr. 
George   included,  very  much   as   she 


70 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLVDYAT. 


had  treated  them  when  they  were 
children.  They  knew  her  sterling 
worth,  and  they  did  not  quarrel  with 
her  plain  manners. 

"When  you  have  got  half  a  dozen 
children  a  pulling  at  your  tail,  '  I  want 
this  !'  from  one,  and  '  I  want  that !' 
from  another,  and  the  same  cry  run- 
ning through  the  lot,  it  isn't  much 
money  you  can  keep  to  spend  on 
shawls,"  resumed  Margery. 

George  Godolphin  enjoyed  his  joke 
at  Margery,  rarely  letting  slip  an 
opportunity  of  teasing  her.  At  times 
they  came  to  an  open  rupture. 

"  Half  a  dozen  children  !"  he  ex- 
claimed, lifting  his  hands  in  awe. 
"  What  an  avowal  for  a  single  wo- 
man !" 

"  Single  women  often  have  more 
children  than  married  ones,  as  far  as 
the  cost  of  'em  goes,"  cried  Margery, 
who  altogether  appeared  too  much 
put  out  to  care  for  any  thing  said  by 
George.  "  I  know  I  have  found  it  so. 
I  was  a  fool  to  come  here  ;  that's 
what  I  was  1  When  the  master  said 
to  me,  '  You  had  better  ■  come  with 
us,  Margery,'  I  ought  to  have  an- 
swered, 'No,  Sir  George,  I'm  better 
stopping  away. ' " 

"  Well,  what  is  the  grievance, 
Margery?"  George  asked,  while  Char- 
lotte Pain  turned  from  one  to  the  other 
with  curiosity. 

"  Why,  they  are  on  at  me  for  money, 
that's  what  it  is,  Mr.  George.  My  lady 
sent  for  me  this  morning  to  say  she 
intended  to  call  and  see  Selina  to-day. 
Of  course,  I  knew  what  that  meant, 
— that  I  was  to  go  and  give  'em  a 
hint  to  have  things  tidy, — for,  if  there's 
one  thing  my  lady  won't  do,  it  is  to 
put  her  foot  into  a  pigsty.  So  I 
clapped  on  my  shawl,  that  you  are 
laughing  at,  and  went.  There  was 
nothing  the  matter  Avith  the  place, 
for  a  wonder  ;  but  there  was  with 
them.  Selina,  she's  in  bed,  ill, — and 
if  she  frets  as  she's  fretting  now,  she 
won't  get  out  of  it  in  a  hurry.  Why 
did  she  marry  the  fellow  ?  It  does 
make  me  so  vexed." 

"  What  has  she  to  fret  about  ?"  con- 
tinued George. 


"  What  does  she  always  have  to  fret 
about?"  retorted  Margery.  "His 
laziness,  and  them  children's  ill-doings. 
They  go  roaming  about  the  country, 
here,  there,  and  everywhere,  after 
work,  as  they  say,  after  places  ;  and 
then  they  get  into  trouble  and  untold- 
of  worry,  and  come  home  or  send 
home  for  money  to  help  them  out  of 
it !  One  of  them,  Nick — and  a  good 
name  for  him,  say  I ! — must  be  off 
into  Wales  to  them  relations  of  Bray's ; 
and  he  has  been  at  some  mischief  there, 
and  is  in  prison  for  it,  and  is  now 
committed  to  take  his  trial.  And  the 
old  woman  has  walked  all  the  way 
here  to  get  funds  from  them,  to  pay 
for  his  defence.  The  news  has  half 
killed  Selina." 

"  I  said  she  was  a  Welshwoman," 
interrupted  Charlotte  Pain.  "  She 
was  smoking,  was  she  not,  Margery  ?" 

"  She's  smoking  a  filthy  short  pipe," 
wrathfully  returned  Margery.  "But 
for  that,  I  should  have  said  she  was 
a  decent  body, — although  it's  next  to 
impossible  to  make  out  her  tongue. 
She  puts  in  ten  words  of  Welsh  to  two 
of  English.  Of  course  they  have  got 
no  money  to  furnish  for  it ;  it  wouldn't 
be  them  if  they  had  ;  so  they  are 
wanting  to  get  it  out  of  me.  Fifteen 
or  twenty  pounds  !  My  word  !  They'd 
like  me  to  end  my  days  in  the  work- 
house." 

"  You  might  turn  a  deaf  ear,  Mar- 
gery," said  George. 

"  I  know  I  might : 
dred  times  have  I 
returned  Margery. 
in  her  bed,  poor  thing,  sobbing  and 
moaning,  and  asking  if  Nick  is  to  be 
abandoned  quite.  The  worse  a  lad 
turns  out,  the  more  a  mother  clings  to 
him, — as  it  seems  to  me.  Let  me  be 
here,  or  let  me  be  at  Ashlydyat,  I  have 
no  peace  for  their  wants.  By  word  of 
mouth  or  by  letter  they  are  on  at  me." 

"If  Nick'  has  got  a  father,  why  can 
he  not  supply  him  ?"  asked  Charlotte. 

"It's  a  sensible  question,  Miss 
Pain,"  said  the  woman.  "Nick's 
father  is  one  of  them  stinging-nettles 
that  only  encumber  the  world,  doing 
no  good  for  themselves  nor  for  anybody 


:  and  many  a  hun- 
vowed  I  would," 
"  But  there's  she 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


71 


beside.  '  Minister'  Bray,  indeed  !  it 
ought  to  be  something  else,  I  think. 
Many  a  one  has  had  cause  to  rue  the 
hour  that  he  '  ministered'  for  'em  !" 

"  How  does  he  minister  ? — what  do 
you  mean?"  wondered  Charlotte. 

"  He  marries  folks  ;  that's  his  ne'er- 
do-well  occupation,  Miss  Pain.  Give 
him  a  live-shilling  piece,  and  he'd  mar- 
ry a  boy  to  his  grandmother.  I'm 
Scotch  by  nativity, — though  it's  not 
much  that  I  have  lived  in  the  land, — 
but  I  do  say,  that,  to  suffer  such  laws 
to  stand  good,  is  a  sin  and  a  shame. 
Two  foolish  children — and  many  of 
those  that  go  to  him  are  no  better — 
— stand  before  him  for  a  half  minute, 
and  he  pronounces  them  to  be  man  and 
wife  !  And  man  and  wife  then  they 
are,  and  must  remain  so  till  the  grave 
takes  one  of  them, — whatever  their  re- 
pentance may  be  when  they  wake  up 
from  their  folly.  It's  just  one  of  the 
blights  upon  bonny  Scotland." 

Margery,  with  no  ceremony  of  leave- 
taking,  turned  at  the  last  words,  and 
continued  her  way.  George  Godol- 
phin  smiled  at  the  blank  expression 
displayed  on  the  countenance  of  Char- 
lotte Pain.  Had  Margery  been  talk- 
ing Welsh,  like  the  old  woman  with 
the  pipe,  she  could  not  have  less  un- 
derstood. 

"  You  require  the  key,  Charlotte," 
said  he.  "  Shall  I  give  it  to  you  ? 
Margery  was  my  mother's  maid,  as 
you  may  have  heard.  Her  sister,  Se- 
lina,  was  maid  to  the  present  Lady 
Godolphin  :  not  of  late  :  long  and  long 
before  she  ever  knew  my  father.  It 
appears  the  girl,  Selina,  was  a  favorite 
of  her  mistress ;  but  she  left  her  in 
spite  of  opposition — opposition  from  all 
quarters — to  marry  Mr.  Sandy  Bray ; 
and  has,  there's  no  doubt,  been  rue- 
ing  it  ever  since.  There  are  several 
children  of  an  age  now  to  be  out  in  the 
world ;  but  you  heard  Margery's  ac- 
count of  them.  I  fear  they  do  pull 
unconscionably  at  poor  Margery's 
purse-strings." 

"  Why  does  she  let  them  ?"  asked 
Charlotte. 

Mr.  George  opened  his  penknife  and 
ran  the  point  of  it  through  his  cigar, 


ere  he  answered.  "Margery  has  a 
soft  place  in  her  heart.  As  I  believe 
most  of  us  have — if  our  friends  could 
but  find  the  way  to  it." 

"  How  strange  that  two  sisters 
should  live,  the  one  with  your  father's 
first  wife,  the  other  with  his  second  I" 
exclaimed  Charlotte,  when  she  had 
given  a  few  moments  to  thought. 
"  Were  they  acquainted  ? — the  ladies." 

"  Not  in  the  least.  They  never  saw 
each  other.  I  believe  it  was  through 
these  women  being  sisters  that  my 
father  became  acquainted  with  the 
present  Lady  Godolphin.  He  was  in 
Scotland,  with  Janet,  visiting  my 
mother's  family,  and  Margery,  who 
was  with  them,  brought  Janet  to  that 
very  house,  there,  to  see  her  sister. 
Mrs.  Campbell — as  she  was  then — 
happened  to  have  gone  there  that  day ; 
and  that's  how  the  whole  arose.  Peo- 
ple say  there's  a  fatality  in  all  things. 
One  would  think  there  must  be  :  until 
that  day,  Mrs.  Campbell  had  not  been 
in  the  house  for  two  or  three  years, 
and  would  not  be  likely  to  go  into  it 
for  two  or  three  more." 

"  Is  Bray  a  mauvais  sujet  ?" 

George  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "  I 
don't  know  that  there's  much  against 
him,  except  his  incorrigible  laziness  : 
that's  bad  enough  when  a  man  has 
children  to  keep.  Work  he  will  not. 
Beyond  the  odds  and  ends  that  he  gets 
by  the  exercise  of  what  he  is  pleased 
to  call  his  trade,  the  fellow  earns  noth- 
ing. Lady  Godolphin  is  charitable  to 
the  wife  ;  and  poor  Margery,  as  she 
says,  finds  her  purse  drawn  at  both 
ends." 

"  I  wondered  why  Margery  came  to 
Scotland!"  exclaimed  Charlotte,  "not 
being  Lady  Godolphin's  maid.  What 
i$  Margery's  capacity  in  your  family  ? 
I  have  never  been  able  to  find  out." 

"  It  might  puzzle  herself  to  tell  what 
it  is  now.  After  my  mother's  death, 
she  waited  on  my  sisters  ;  but  when 
they  left  Ashlydyat,  Margery  declined 
to  follow  them.  She  would  not  quit 
Sir  George.  She  is  excessively  at- 
tached to  him,  nearly  as  much  so  as 
she  was  to  my  mother.  That,  the 
quitting  of  Ashlydyat,  ourselves  first, 


72 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


and  then  my  father,  was  a  hard  blow 
to  Margery,"  George  added  in  a 
dreamy  tone.  "  She  has  never  been 
the  same  in  manner  since." 

"  It  was  Margery*  was  it  not,  who 
attended  upon  Sir  George  in  his  long 
illness  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  he  would  have 
done  without  her,"  spoke  George  Go- 
dolphin  in  a  tone  that  betrayed  its  own 
gratitude.  "  In  sickess  she  is  invalua- 
ble ;  certainly  not  to  be  replaced  where 
she  is  attached.  Lady  Godolphin, 
though  in  her  heart  I  do  not  fancy  she 
likes  Margery,  respects  her  for  her 
worth." 

"  I  cannot  say  I  like  her,"  said  Char- 
lotte Pain.  "  Her  manners  are  too  in- 
dependent. I  have  heard  her  order 
you  about." 

"  And  you  will  hear  her  again,"  said 
George  Godolphin.  "  She  exercised 
great  authority  over  us  when  we  were 
children,  and  she  looks  upon  us  as 
children  still.  Her  years  have  grown 
with  ours,  and  there  is  ever  the  same 
distance  of  age  between  us.  I  speak 
of  the  younger  among  us  :  to  Thomas 
and  Janet  she  is  the  respectful  servant ; 
m  a  measure  also  to  Bessy ;  of  me 
and  Cecil  she  considers  herself  partial 
mistress." 

"  If  they  are  so  poor  as  to  draw  Mar- 
gery of  her  money,  how  is  it  they  can 
live  in  that  house  and  pay  its  rent  ?" 
inquired  Charlotte,  looking  towards 
the  building. 

"  It  is  Bray's  own.  The  land  be- 
longing to  it  has  been  mortgaged  three 
deep  long  ago.  He  might  have  been 
in  a  tolerably  good  position  had  he 
chosen  to  take  care  of  his  chances  :  he 
was  not  born  a  peasant." 

"  Who  is  this  ?"  exclaimed  Charlotte. 

A  tall  slouching  man  with  red  hair 
and  heavy  shoulders  was  advancing 
towards  them  from  the  house.  George 
turned  round  to  look  ;  he  had  his  back 
that  way,  leaning  against  a  fence. 

"That  is  Bray  himself.  Look  at 
the  lazy  fellow  !  You  may  tell  his 
temperament  from  his  gait." 

George  Godolphin  was  right.  The 
man  was  not  walking  along,  but  trail- 
ing,— sauntering  ;    turning   to  either 


side  and  bending  his  head  as  if  flowers 
lay  in  his  path  and  he  wished  to  re- 
gard them  ;  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
his  appearance  any  thing  but  fresh  and 
clean.  They  watched  him  come  up. 
He  touched  his  hat  then  and  accosted 
Mr.  George  Godolphin. 

"  My  service  to  ye,  sir  ?  I  didna 
know  you  were  in  these  parts." 

"  So  you  are  still  in  the  land  of  the 
living,  Bray  !"  was  Mr.  George's  re- 
sponse.    "  How  is  business  ?" 

"Dull  as  a  dyke,"  returned  Bray. 
"  Times  are  bad.  I've  hardly  took  a 
crown  in  the  last  three  months,  sir. 
I  shall  have  to  emigrate,  if  this  is  to 
go  on." 

"  I  fear  you  would  scarcely  find  an- 
other country  so  tolerant  of  your  pe- 
culiar calling,  Bray,"  mocked  George. 
"  And  what  would  the  neighborhood 
do  without  you  ?  It  must  resign  it- 
self to  single  blessedness." 

"  The  neighborhood  dunna  come  to 
me.  Folks  go  over  to  the  kirk  now 
it's  come  into  fashion  ;  and  I'm  going 
down.  'Tvvas  different  in  the  past 
times  :  a  man  would  give  a  ten-pun 
note  then  to  have  things  done  neatly 
and  quietly.  But  there's  fresh  notions 
and  fresh  havers ;  and,  for  all  the  good 
they  have  done  me,  I  might  as  well 
be  out  of  the  world.  Is  this  Miss 
Cecil  ?" 

The  last  question  was  put  abruptly, 
the  man  turning  himself  full  upon 
Charlotte  Pain,  and  scanning  her  face. 
George  Godolphin  was  surprised  out 
of  an  answer  :  had  he  taken  a  moment 
for  reflection,  he  might  have  deemed 
the  question  an  impertinent  one,  and 
passed  it  by. 

'•  Miss  Cecil  is  not  in  Scotland." 

"  I  thought  it  might  be  her,"  said 
the  man,  "  for  Miss  Cecil's  looks  are 
a  country's  talk,  and  I  have  heard 
much  of  them.  I  see  now  :  there's 
naught  of  the  Godolphin  there.  But 
it's  a  bonny  face,  young  lady  :  and  I 
dare  say  there's  them  that  are  finding 
it  so." 

He  shambled  on,  with  a  gesture  of 
the  hand  by  the  way  of  salutation. 
Charlotte  Pain  did  not  dislike  the 
implied  compliment.     "  How  can  this 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T 


73 


man  marry  people  ?"  she  exclaimed. 
"  He  is  no  priest." 

"He  can,  and  he  does  ;  and  is  not 
interfered  with,  or  forbidden,"  said 
George  Godolphin.  "  At  least,  he 
did.  By  his  own  account,  his  patro- 
nage seems  to  be  now  on  the  decline." 
"  Did  he  marry  them  openly  ?" 
"Well — no,  I  conclude  not.  If  peo- 
ple found  it  convenient  to  marry 
openly  they  would  not  go  to  him. 
And  why  they  should  go  to  him  at 
all,  puzzles  me,  and  always  has  done; 
for,  the  sort  of  marriage  that  he  per- 
forms can  be  performed  by  anybody 
wearing  a  coat,  in  Scotland,  or  by  the 
couple  themselves.  But  he  has  ac- 
quired a  name,  '  Minister  Bray  ;'  and 
a  great  deal  lies  in  a  name  for  ladies 
ears." 

"Ladies!"  cried  Charlotte,  scorn- 
fully. "  Only  the  peasants  went  to 
him,  I  am  sure." 

"  Others  have  gone,  besides  peas- 
ants. Bray  boasts  yet  of  a  fifty- 
pound  note,  once  put  into  his  hand 
for  pronouncing  the  benediction.  It 
is  a  ceremony  that  we  are  given  to  be 
lavish  upon,"  added  George,  laughing. 
"  I  have  heard  of  money  being  grudged 
for  a  funeral ;  but  I  never  did  for  a 
wedding." 

"  Were  I  compelled  to  be  a  resident 
of  this  place,  I  should  get  married 
myself,  or  do  something  else  as  des- 
perate, oui  of  sheer  ennui,"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  You  find  it  dull  ?" 
"  It  has  been  more  tolerable  since 
you  came,"  she  frankly  avowed. 

George  raised  his  hat,  and  his  blue 
eyes  shot  a  glance  into  hers.  "  Thank 
you,  Charlotte." 

"  Why  were  you  so  long  in  coming  ? 
Do  you  know  what  I  had  done.  I 
had  written  a  letter  to  desire  Mrs. 
Verrall  to  recall  me.  Another  week 
of  it  would  have  turned  me  melancholy. 
Your  advent  was  better  than  no- 
body's." 

"Thank  you  again,  mademoiselle. 

When  I  promise " 

"Promise  !"  she  warmly  interrupted. 
"  I  have  learnt  what  your  promises 
are  worth.     Oh  but,  George,  tell  me — 


What  was  it  that  you  and  Lady  Go- 
dolphin  were  saying  yesterday?  It 
was  about  Ethel  Grarne.  I  only 
caught  a  word  here  and  there." 

"  Thomas  wishes  Lady  Godolphin 
would  invite  Ethel  here  for  the  re- 
mainder of  their  stay.  He  thinks 
Ethel  would  be  all  the  better  for  a 
change,  after  being  mured  up  in  that 
fever-tainted  house.  But,  don't  talk 
of  it.  It  was  but  a  little  private  ne- 
gotiation that  Thomas  was  endeavor- 
ing to  carry  out  upon  his  own  account. 
He  wrote  to  me  and  he  wrote  to  my 
lady.     Ethel  knows  nothing  of  it." 

"  And  what  does  Lady  Godolphin 
say  ?" 

George  drew  in  his  lips.  "  She 
says  No, — as  I  expected.  And  I 
believe  she  is  for  once  sorry  to  say  it, 
for  pretty  Ethel  is  a  favorite  of  hers. 
But  she  retains  her  dread  of  the  fever. 
Her  argument  is,  that,  although  Ethel 
has  escaped  it  in  her  own  person,  she 
might  by  possibility  bring  it  here  in 
her  clothes." 

"Stuff!"  cried  Charlotte  Pain.  "Sa- 
rah Anna  might ;  but  I  do  not  see 
how  Ethel  could.  I  wonder  Thomas 
does  not  marry,  and  have  done  with 
it !     He  is  old  enough." 

"  And  Ethel  young  enough.  It 
will  not  be  delayed  long  now.  The 
vexatious  question,  concerning  resi- 
dence, must  be  settled  in  some  way." 
"  What  residence  ?  What  is  there 
vexatious  about  it  ?"  quickly  asked 
Charlotte,  curiously. 

"  There  is  some  vexation  about  it, 
in  some  way  or  other,"  returned 
George,  with  indifference,  not  choos- 
ing to  speak  more  openly.  "It  is 
not  my  affair  :  it  lies  between  Thomas 
and  Sir  George.    When  Thomas  comes 

here  next  week " 

"Is  Thomas  coming  next  week  V 
she  interrupted. 

"  That  is  the  present  plan.  And  I 
return." 

She  threw  her  flashing  eyes  at  him. 
They  said — well,  they  said  a  good 
deal :  perhaps  Mr.  George  could  read 
it.  "  You  had  better  get  another  let- 
ter of  recall  written,  Charlotte,"  he  re- 
sumed,  in   a  tone   which   might   be 


74 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


taken  for  jest  or  for  earnest,  "  and  give 
me  the  honor  of  your  escort." 

"  How  you  talk !"  returned  she, 
peevishly.  "As  if  Lady  Godolphin 
would  allow  me  to  go  all  that  way 
under  your  escort !  As  if  I  would  go  !" 

"  You  might  have  a  less  safe  one, 
Charlotte  mia,"  cried  Mr.  George, 
somewhat  saucily.  "  No  lion  should 
come  near  you,  to  eat  you  up." 

"George,"  resumed  Charlotte,  after 
a  pause,  "  I  wish  you  would  tell  me 
whether  Mrs.  Yerrall Good  Hea- 
vens !  what's  that?" 

Loud  sounds  of  distress  were  sound- 
ing in  their  ears.  They  turned  hastily. 
Maria  Hastings,  her  camp-stool  over- 
turned, her  sketching  materials  scat- 
tered on  the  ground,  was  flying  to- 
wards them,  sobbing,  moaning,  calling 
upon  George  Godolphin  to  save  her. 
There  was  no  mistaking  that  she  was 
in  a  state  of  intense  terror. 

Charlotte  Pain  wondered  if  she  had 
gone  mad.  She  could  see  nothing 
possible  to  alarm  her.  George  Go- 
dolphin cast  his  rapid  glance  to  the 
spot  where  she  had  sat,  and  could 
see  nothing,  either.  He  hastened  to 
meet  her,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms, 
where  she  literally  threw  herself. 

Entwined  round  her  left  wrist  was 
a  small  snake,  or  reptile  of  the  species, 
more  than  a  foot  long.  It  looked  like 
an  eel,  writhing  there.  Maria  had 
never  come  into  personal  contact  with 
any  thing  of  the  sort :  but  she  remem- 
bered Avhat  has  been  said  of  the  dead- 
ly bite  of  a  serpent ;  and  her  terror 
completely  overmastered  her. 

He  seized  it  and  flung  it  from  her  ; 
he  laid  her  poor  terrified  face  upon 
his  breast,  that  she  might  sob  out  her 
fear ;  he  cast  a  greedy  glance  at  her 
wrist,  where  the  thing  had  been  :  and 
his  own  face  had  turned  white  with 
emotion. 

"My  darling,  there  is  no  injury," 
he  soothingly  whispered.  "Be  calm! 
be  calm  !"  And,  utterly  regardless 
of  the  presence  of  Charlotte  Pain,  he 
laid  his  cheek  to  hers,  as  if  to  reassure 
her,  and  kept  it  there. 

Less  regardless,  possibly,  had  he 
Been    Charlotte   Pain's    countenance. 


It  was  dark  as  night.  The  scales 
were  rudely  torn  from  her  eyes  :  and 
she  saw,  i,n  that  moment,  how  fallac- 
ious had  been  her  own  hopes  touching 
George  Godolphin. 


CHAPTER   IX, 

MR.    SANDY'S    "TRADE." 

"  Whatever  is  the  matter  ?" 

The  interruption  came  from  Lady 
Godolphin.  Charlotte  Pain  had  per- 
ceived her  approach,  but  had  ungra- 
ciously refrained  from  intimating  it  to 
her  companions.  My  lady,  a  coquet- 
tish white  bonnet  shading  her  deli- 
cate face,  and  her  little  person  envel- 
oped in  a  purple  velvet  mantle  trim- 
med with  ermine,  was  on  her  way  to 
vouchsafe  a  visit  to  her  ex-maid, 
Selina.  She  surveyed  the  group  with 
intense  astonishment.  Maria  Hast- 
ings, white,  sobbing,  clinging  to 
George  Godolphin  in  unmistakable 
terror ;  Mr.  George  soothing  her  in 
rather  a  marked  manner  ;  and  Char- 
lotte Pain,  erect,  haughty,  her  arms 
folded,  her  head  drawn  up,  giving  no 
assistance,  her  countenance  about  as 
pleasant  as  a  demon's  my  lady  had 
once  the  pleasure  of  seeing  at  the 
play.  She  called  out  the  above  words 
before  she  was  well  up  with  them. 

George  Godolphin  did  not  release 
Maria ;  he  simply  lifted  his  head. 
"She  has  been  greatly  terrified,  Lady 
Godolphin  :  but  no  harm  is  done. 
Some  reptile  of  the  snake  species 
fastened  on  her  wrist.  I  have  flung 
it  off." 

He  glanced  towards  the  spot  where 
stood  Lady  Godolphin,  as  much  as  to 
imply  that  he  had  flung  the  offender 
there.  My  lady  shrieked  out,  caught 
up  her  petticoats,  we  won't  say  how 
high,  and  leaped  away  nimbly. 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  !" 
she  exclaimed.  "  A  snake  !  What 
should  bring  snakes  about,  here  ?" 

"  Say  a  serpent !"  broke  from  the 
pale  lips  of  Charlotte  Pain. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT, 


75 


Lady  Godolphin  did  not  detect  the 
irony,  and  she  felt  realty  alarmed. 
Maria,  growing  calmer,  and  perhaps 
feeling  half  ashamed  of  the  emotion, 
which  fear  had  caused  her  to  display, 
drew  away  from  George  Godolphin 
to  stand  alone.  He  would  not  suffer 
that,  and  made  her  take  his  arm.  "  I 
am  sorry  to  have  alarmed  you  all  so 
much,"  she  said.  "  Indeed,  I  could 
not  help  it,  Lady  Godolphin." 

"A  serpent  in  the  grass!"  repeated 
her  ladyship,  unable  to  get  over  the 
surprise.  "  How  did  it  get  on  to  you, 
Maria  ?     Were  you  lying  down  ?" 

"  I  was  sitting  on  the  camp-stool ; 
there  ;  busy  with  my  drawing,"  she 
answered.  "My  left  hand  was  hang- 
ing down,  touching,  I  believe,  the 
grass.  I  began  to  feel  something 
cold  on  my  wrist,  but  at  first  did  not 
notice  it.  Then  I  lifted  it  and  saw 
that  dreadful  thing  wound  round  it. 
I  could  not  shake  it  off.  Oh,  Lady 
Godolphin  !  I  felt — I  hardly  know 
how  I  felt.  Almost  as  if  I  should 
have  died,  had  there  been  no  one  near 
to  run  to." 

Lady  Godolphin,  her  skirts  still 
lifted,  the  tips  of  her  toes  touching 
gingerly  the  path,  to  which  they  had 
now  hastened,  and  her  eyes  alert,  lest 
the  serpent  should  come  trailing  forth 
from  any  unexpected  direction,  re- 
marked that  it  was  a  mercy  Maria  had 
escaped  with  only  fright.  "You  seem 
to  experience  enough  of  that,"  she 
said.     "Don't  faint,  child." 

Maria's  lips  parted  with  a  sickly 
smile,  which  she  meant  should  be  a 
brave  one.  She  was  both  timid  and 
excitable ;  and,  if  terror  did  attack 
her,  she  felt  it  in  no  common  degree. 
What  would  have  been  but  a  passing 
fear  to  another,  forgotten  almost  as 
soon  as  felt,  was  to  her  agony.  Re- 
markably susceptible  was  she  to  the 
extreme  of  pleasure  and  the  extreme 
of  pain.  "  There  is  no  fear  of  my  faint- 
ing," she  answered  to  Lady  Godol- 
phin. "  I  have  never  fainted  in  my 
life." 

"  I  am  on  my  road  to  see  an  old 
servant  who  lives  in  that  house,"  said 
Lady  Godolphin,  pointing  to  the  tene- 


ment, little  thinking'  how  far  it  had 
formed  their  theme  of  discourse. 
"  You  shall  come  with  me,  and  rest 
yourself,  and  take  some  water." 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  best  thing  to  be 
done,"  said  George  Godulphin.  "I'll 
take  you  there,  Maria,  and  then  I'll 
have  a  hunt  after  the  beast.  I  ought 
to  have  killed  him  at  the  time." 

Lady  Godolphin  walked  on,  Char- 
lotte Pain  at  her  side.  Charlotte's 
lip  was  curling.  "Did  it  alarm  you 
much  Charlotte  ?"  asked  she. 

"  No,"  replied  Charlotte.  "  I  am 
not  alarmed  at  eels." 

"At  eels!"  repeated  Lady  Godol- 
phin.    "Eels!" 

"  It  was  nothing  but  an  eel,"  said 
Charlotte,  "escaped  out  of  some 
neighboring  pond." 

My  lady  turned  to  those  behind. 
"  Maria,  what  a  pity  to  have  alarmed 
yourself  for  nothing  !  Charlotte  Pain 
says  it  was  an  eel." 

"  It  was  not  an  eel,"  answered 
George. 

"  It  was  nothing  more  formidable," 
persisted  Charlotte,  her  tone  assum- 
ing much  pleasantry,  as  if  she  would 
joke  the  affair  away.  "But,  eels  are 
quite  sufficient  to  call  forth  pretty 
affectations  when  there's  any  one  by 
worth  acting  them  for." 

The  concluding  words  were  spoken 
to  Lady  Godolphin  only.  Mr.  George, 
however,  caught  them,  and  felt  a  little 
"  savage."  "  There's  no  occasion  for 
your  being  put  out  over  it,  Miss 
Pain,"  he  called  after  her.  "It  has 
not  hurt  you.'''' 

"  But  was  it  an  eel,  George  ?"  in- 
quired my  lady. 

"  It  was  not  an  eel,  Lady  Godol- 
phin. It  was  a  snake  :  though  pos- 
sibly a  harmless  one." 

"  Some  of  those  snakes  spit  venom, 
and  men  die  from  it,"  cried  her  lady- 
ship, growing  flustered  again.  And 
she  folded  her  petticoats  tight  around 
her,  and  walked  on,  out  of  harm's  way. 

George  Godolphin  bent  his  head  to 
look  at  Maria.  The  color  was  com- 
ing into  her  face  again.  "  It  is  a  long 
while  since  you  had  such  a  fright  as 
this,  Maria." 


7o 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


•'  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have 
nad  one  like  it,"  she  replied.  "But 
I  must  get  my  things  ;  they  are  all 
lying  there." 

He  said  that  he  would  get  them  for 
her.  • 

The  house  door,  to  which  they  were 
bound,  stood  open.  Across  its  lower 
portion,  as  if  to  prevent  the  egress  of 
children,  was  a  board,  formerly  placed 
there  for  that  express  purpose.  The 
children  were  grown  now,  and  scatter- 
ed, but  the  board  remained ;  the  inmates 
stepping  over  it  at  their  will.  Sandy 
Bray,  who  must  have  skulked  back 
to  his  home  by  some  unseen  circuit, 
made  a  rush  to  the  board  at  the  sight 
of  Lady  Godolphin,  and  pulled  it 
out  of  its  grooves,  leaving  the  en- 
trance clear.  But  for  his  intense 
idleness,  knowing  she  was  coming,  he 
would  have  removed  it  earlier. 

It  was  a  large  room  they  entered 
upon,  half  sitting-room,  half  kitchen, 
its  boarded  floor  very  clean.  The  old 
woman,  a  cleanly,  well-mannered, 
honest-faced  old  woman,  was  busy 
knitting  then,  and  came  forward, 
curtesyirig :  no  vestige  of  her  pipe  to 
be  seen  or  smelt.  "  Selina  was  in 
bed,"  Bray  said,  standing  humbly 
before  Lady  Godolphin.  "  Selina  had 
heard  bad  news  of*  one  of  the  brats, 
and  had  worried  herself  sick  over  it, 
as  my  lady  knew  it  was  the  stupid 
nature  of  Selina  to  do.  Would  my 
ladv  be  pleased  to  step  up  to  see 
her  f" 

I  Yes  ;  my  lady  would  be  pleased  to 
do  so  by-and-by.  But  at  present  she 
Idirected  a  glass  of  water  to  be  brought 
to  Miss  Hastings,  who  had  been  placed 
in  the  only  chair  the  room  afforded. 
Maria  resisted ;  said  she  was  well 
now,  and  would  sit  upon  a  bench  : 
Lady  Godolphin  must  take  the  chair. 
No.  Lady  Godolphin  chose  to  sit 
upon  the  hard  bench  by  the  side  of 
the  attractive-faced  and  smiling  old 
lady  :  attractive  to  the  eye  of  a 
physiognomist :  and  tried  to  talk  with 
her.  Little  good  came  of  it :  my 
lady  was  unable  to  understand  her- 
self: and  could  not  tell  whether  she 


was  understood.  Bray  brought  the 
water  in  a  yellow  cup 

"  Eh,  but  there  is  some  of  them 
things  about  here,"  he  said  when  the 
cause  of  alarm  was  mentioned.  "  I 
think  there  must  be  a  nest  of  'em. 
They  be  harmless,  so  far  as  I  know." 

"Why  don't  you  find  the  nest?" 
asked  Mr.  George  Godolphin. 

'\And  what  good,  if  I  did  find  'em, 
sir  ?"  said  he. 

"  Kill  the  lot,"  responded  George. 

He  strode  out  of  the  house,  Bray 
following  in  his  wake,  to  look  for  the 
reptile  which  had  caused  the  alarm. 
Bray  was  sure  nothing  would  come 
of  it :  the  thing  had  time  to  get  clear 
away. 

In  point  of  fact,  nothing  did  come 
of  it.  George  Godolphin  could  not 
fix  upon  the  precise  spot  where  they 
had  stood  when  he  threw  away  the 
reptile ;  and,  to  beat  over  the  whole 
field,  which  was  extensive,  would 
have  been  endless  work.  He  ex- 
amined carefully  the  spot  where  she 
had  sat,  both  he  and  Bray,  but 
could  see  no  trace  of  any  thing 
alarming.  Gathering  up  her  treas- 
ures, including  the  camp-stool,  he  set 
off  with  them.  Bray  made  a  feeble 
show  of  bearing  the  stool.  "  No," 
said  George,  "I'll  carry  it  myself;  it 
would  be  too  much  trouble  for  you." 

Charlotte  Pain  stood  at  the  door, 
watching  as  they  approached,  her 
rich  cheek  glowing,  her  eye  flashing. 
Never  had  she  looked  more  beautiful, 
and  she  bent  her  sweetest  smile  upon 
Mr.  George,  who  had  the  camp-stool 
swinging  on  his  back.  Lady  Godol- 
phin had  gone  up  then  to  the  invalid. 
Maria,  quite  herself  again,  came  for- 
ward. 

"  No  luck,"  said  George.  "  I  meant 
to  have  secured  the  fellow  and  put 
him  in  a  glass  case  as  a  memento  : 
but  he  has  been  too  cunning.  Here'? 
your  sketch,  Maria ;  undamaged. 
And  here  are  the  other  rattle- 
traps." 

She  bent  over  the  drawing  quit* 
fondly.  "I  am  glad  it  was  finished,'' 
she   said.     "  I   can   do   the   fillin^-in 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T  , 


77 


later.  I  should  not  have  had  courage 
to  sit  in  that  place  again." 

"  Well,  old  lady,"  cried  George  in 
his  free-and-easy  manner,  as  he  stood 
by  the  Welshwoman,  and  looked  down 
at  her  nimble  fingers,  "so  you  have 
come  all  the  way  from  Wales  on  foot, 
I  hear  !  You  put  some  of  us  to  the 
shame." 

She  looked  up  and  smiled  pleasantly. 
She  understood  English  better  than 
she  could  speak  it. 

"  Not  on  foot  all  the  way,"  she 
managed  to  explain.  "  On  foot  to  the 
great  steamer,  and  then  on  foot  again 
after  the  steamer  landed  her  in 
Scotland.  Not  less  than  a  hundred 
miles  of  land,  take  it  both  together." 

"  Oh,  I  see  !"  said  George,  perceiv- 
ing that  Margery  had  taken  up  a 
wrong  impression.  "But  you  must 
have  been  a  good  while  doing  that  ?" 

"But  she  had  the  time  before  her," 
she  answered,  more  by  signs  than 
speech,  "  and  her  legs  were  used  to 
the  roads.  In  the  lifetime  of  her 
husband  she  had  oftentimes  accompa- 
nied him  on  foot  to  different  parts  of 
England,  when  he  went  there  with 
his  droves  of  cattle.  It  was  in  those 
journeys  that  she  learnt  to  talk  Eng- 
lish." 

George  laughed  at  that,  the  talking 
of  English.  "  Did  you  learn  the  use 
of  the  pipe  also  in  the  journeys,  old 
lady  ?" 

She  certainly  had  ;  for  she  nodded 
fifty  times  in  answer,  and  looked  de- 
lighted at  his  divination.  "But  she 
was  obliged  to  put  up  with  cheap 
tobacco  now,"  she  said  :  "  and  had  a 
trouble  to  get  that !" 

George  pulled  out  a  great  paper  of 
Turkey,  from  some  hidden  receptacle 
of  his  coat,    "  Did  she  like  that  sort  ?" 

She  looked  at  it  with  the  eye  of  a 
connoisseur,  touched  it,  smelt  it,  and 
finally  tasted  it.  "  Ah,  yes  !  that  was 
good  ;  very  good  ;  too  good  for  her." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  George.  "  It's 
yours,  old  lady.  There  !  It  will  keep 
your  pipe  going  on  the  road  home." 

When  fully  convinced  that  he  meant 
it  in  earnest,  she  laid  hold  of  his  hand, 
shook  it  heartily  and  long,  and  went 


off  into  a  Welsh  oration.  It  was  cut 
short  in  the  midst,  She  caught  sight 
of  Bray,  coming  in  at  the  house  door, 
and  smuggled  the  present  out  of  sight 
amidst  her  petticoats.  Had  Mr.  Sandy 
seen  it,  she  might  have  derived  little 
of  its  benefit  herself. 

"  The  storm's  brewing  fast,"  ob- 
served Sandy.  "  It  won't  be  long  be- 
fore it  falls." 

George  Godolphin  went  to  the  door 
and  stood  there,  regarding  the  weath- 
er. The  clouds  had  gathered,  and 
there  was  every  appearance  of  a  com- 
ing storm.  "  By  Jove,  yes  !"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  we  shall  have  it  smartly. 
I  suppose  it  will  not  do  to  warn  my 
lady ;  she  resents  even  a  word  of  in- 
terference :  but  no  carriage  can  get 
here." 

Lady  Godolphin  would  be  equally 
displeased  at  their  starting  for  home 
without  her ;  they  knew  that  she  would 
regard  any  such  step  as  a  slight.  They 
could  only  wait.  And  nothing  loth, 
either :  the  prospect  of  a  storm  is  not 
much  heeded  by  the  young. 

Time  lagged.  The  conversation  fell 
upon  Bray's  trade, — as  the  man  was 
wont  to  call  it ;  though  who  or  what 
led  to  the  topic  none  of  them  could  re- 
member. He  recounted  two  or  three 
incidents  of  interest ;  one  of  a  gentle- 
man's marrying  a  young  wife  and 
being  shot  dead  the  next  day  by  her 
friends.  She  was  an  heiress,  and  they 
had  run  away  from  Ireland.  But  that 
occurred  years  and  years  ago,  he  add- 
ed. Would  the  ladies  like  to  see  the 
room  ? 

He  opened  a  door  at  the  back  of  the 
kitchen,  traversed  a  passage,  and  en- 
tered a  small  place,  which  could  only 
be  called  a  room  by  courtesy.  They 
followed,  wonderingly.  The  walls 
were  whitewashed,  the  floor  was  of 
brick,  and  the  contracted  skylight,  by 
which  it  was  lighted,  was  of  thick- 
coarse  glass,  embellished  with  green 
knobs.  What  with  the  lowering  sky, 
and  with  this  lowering  window,  the 
room  wore  an  appeai'ance  of  the 
gloomiest  twilight.  No  furniture  was 
in  it,  except  a  table  (or  something  that 
served  for  one)  covered  with  a  large 


78 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


preen  baize  cloth,  on  which  lay  a  book. 
The  contrast  from  the  kitchen,  bright 
with  its  fire,  with  the  appliances  of 
household  life,  to  this  strange  com- 
fortless place,  made  them  shiver.  "  A 
fit  place  for  the  noose  to  be  tied  in  !" 
cried  irreverent  George,  surveying  it 
critically. 

Bray  took  the  words  literally. 
"  Yes,"  said  he.  "  It's  kept  for  that 
purpose  alone.  It  is  a  bit  out  of  the 
common,  and  that  pleases  the  women. 
If  I  said  the  words  in  my  kitchen,  it 
might  not  be  so  satisfying  to  them,  ye 
Bee.  It  does  not  take  two  minutes  to 
do,"  he  added,  taking  his  stand  behind 
the  table  and  opening  the  book.  "  I 
wish  I  had  as  many  pieces  of  gold  as  I 
have  done  it  here  in  my  time." 

Charlotte  Pain  took  up  the  words 
defiantly.  "  It  is  impossible  that  such 
a  marriage  can  stand.  It  is  not  a 
marriage." 

"  'Deed,  but  it  is,  young  lady." 

"  It  cannot  be  good,"  she  haughtily 
rejoined.  If  it  stands  good  for  this 
loose-lawed  country,  it  cannot  for 
other.:-. '" 

"  Ay,  how  about  that?"  interrupted 
George,  still  in  his  light  tone  of  ridi- 
cule. "  Would  it  hold  good  in  Eng- 
land?" 

Minister  Bray  craned  his  long  neck 
towards  them,  over  the  table,  where 
they  stood  in  a  group.  He  took  hold 
of  the  hand  of  George  Godolphin,  of 
the  hand  of  Charlotte  Tain,  and  put 
them  together.  "  Ye  have  but  to  say 
'  I  take  you,  young  lady,  to  be  my 
lawful  wife  ;  and  I  take  you,  sir,  to  be 
my  husband,'  putting  in  your  right 
names.  I'd  then  pronounce  ye  man 
and  wife,  and  say  the  blessing  on  it ; 
and  the  deed  would  be  done,  and  hold 
good  all  over  the  world." 

Did  Mr.  Sandy  Bray  anticipate  that 
he  might  thus  extemporize  an  im- 
promptu job,  which  should  bring  some 
grist  to  his  empty  mill  ?"  Not  impro- 
bably ;  for  he  did  not  release  their 
hands,  but  kept  them  joined  together, 
looking  at  both  in  silence. 

George  Godolphin  was  the  first  to 
draw  his  hand  away.  Charlotte  had 
only  stared  with  wondering  eyes,  and 


she  now  burst  into  a  laugh  of  ridicule. 
"  Thank  you  for  your  information," 
said  Mr.  George.  "  There's  no  know- 
ing, Bray, 'but  I  may  call  your  services 
into  requisition  some  time." 

"  Where  are  you  ?"  came  the  soft 
voice  of  Lady  Godolphin  down  the 
passage.  "  We  must  make  all  haste 
home  ;  it  is  going  to  rain.  Charlotte, 
are  you  there  ?  Where  have  you  all 
got  to  ?     Charlotte,  I  say  !" 

Charlotte  hastened  out.  Lady  Go- 
dolphin took  her  arm  at  once,  and 
walked  with  a  quick  step  through  the 
kitchen  into  the  open  air,  nodding 
adieu  to  the  old  Welshwoman.  My 
lady,  herself,  her  ermine,  her  velvets, 
possibly  her  delicate-bloomed  com- 
plexion, all  shrank  from  the  violence 
of  a  storm  :  storms,  neither  of  life  nor 
of  weather,  had  ever  come  too  near 
Lady  Godolphin.  She  glanced  up- 
ward at  the  threatening  and  angry 
sky,  and  pulled  Charlotte  on. 

"Can  you  walk  fast  ?  So  lovely  a 
morning  as  it  was  !" 

Charlotte  answered  by  walking  fast. 
But  she  looked  back  as  she  walked. 
"  They  are  not  coming  yet  1"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Maria  Hastings  will  get 
wet.     I  will  return  and  tell  them." 

"  Nonsense  !"  panted  my  lady,  her 
breath  getting  short  with  the  unusual 
exertion,  "  they  can  see  the  darkness 
as  well  as  we  can.  They  are  sure  to 
come."  And  she  kept  fast  hold  of 
Charlotte's  arm. 

"  Here  comes  one  of  the  servants  !" 
exclaimed  Charlotte.  "  With  umbrel- 
las, no  doubt.     How  he  runs  !" 

My  lady  lifted  her  eyes.  Advanc- 
ing towards  them  with  fleet  foot,  as 
if  he  were  running  for  a  wager,  came  a 
man  in  the  Godolphin  livery.  If  um- 
brellas had  been  the  object  of  his  com- 
ing, he  must  have  dropped  them  on 
his  way  ;  for  his  arms  swang  beside 
him,  and  his  hands  were  empty. 

"  My  lady,"  cried  the  man,  nearly 
as  much  out  of  breath  as  Lady  Godol- 
phin, "  Sir  George  is  taken  ill !" 

My  lady  stopped  then.  "  111  !"  she 
repeated.     "  In  what  way,  ill  ?" 

"  Margery  has  just  found  him  lying 
on   the  floor  of  his  room,  my  lady. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


79 


We  have  got  him  on  to  the  bed,  but 
he  appears  to  be  quite  insensible. 
Andrew  has  gone  for  the  doctor." 

"  Hasten  to  the  house  there,  and 
acquaint  Mr.  George  Godolphin,"  said 
my  lady,  pointing  to  Bray's. 

But  Charlotte  was  already  gone  on 
the  errand.  She  quitted  Lady  Goclol- 
phin's  arm  and  started  back  with  all 
speed,  calling  out  that  she  would  in- 
form Mr.  George  Godolphin.  My  lady, 
on  her  part,  had  sped  on  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Broomhead,  with  a  fleeter  foot 
than  before. 

Leaving  the  man  standing  where  he 
was  :  ''  Which  of  the  two  be  I  to  fol- 
low, I  wonder?"  he  soliloquized.  "I 
suppose  I  had  better  keep  up  with  my 
lady." 

When  Charlotte  Pain  had  quitted 
Mr.  Sandy  Bray's  match-making  room, 
at  my  lady's  call,  George  Godolphin 
turned  with  a  rapid,  impulsive  motion 
to  Maria  Hastings,  who  was  following 
Charlotte,  caught  her  hand,  and  drew 
her  beside  him,  as  he  stood  before 
Bray.  "  Maria,  she  will  fetter  me  to 
her  in  spite  of  myself!"  he  said  in  a 
hoarse  whisper.  "  Let  me  put  it  out 
of  her  power." 

Maria  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 
Well  she  might. 

"  Be  mine  now  :  here,"  he  rapidly 
continued,  bending  his  face  so  that 
she  alone  might  hear.  "  I  swear  that 
I  never  will  presume  upon  the  act, 
until  it  can  be  more  legally  solemnized. 
But  it  will  serve  to  bind  us  to  each 
other  beyond  the  power  of  man  or 
woman  to  set  aside." 

Maria  turned  red,  pale, — any  color 
that  you  will, — and  quietly  drew  her 
hand  from  that  of  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin's.  "  I  do  not  quite  know  whether 
vou  are  in  earnest  or  in  jest,  George. 
You  will  allow  me  to  infer  the 
latter." 

Quiet  as  were  the  words,  calm  as 
was  the  manner,  there  was  that  about 
her  which  unmistakably  showed  Mr. 
George  Godolphin  that  he  might  not 
venture  farther  to  forget  himself, — if, 
indeed,  he  had  not  been  in  jest.  Maria, 
a  true  gentlewoman  at  heart,  professed 
to  assume  that  he  had  been. 


"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  murmured. 
"  Nay  :  let  mo  make  my  peace,  Maria." 
And  he  took  her  hand  again,  and 
held  it  in  his.  Minister  Bray  leaned 
towards  them  with  an  earnest  face. 
Resigning  the  hope  of  doing  any  little 
stroke  of  business  on  his  own  account, 
he  sought  to  obtain  some  information 
on  a  different  subject. 

"  Sir,  would  ye  be  pleased  to  tell 
me  a  trifle  about  your  criminal  laws 
over  the  border  ?  One  of  my  ne'er- 
do-wells  has  been  getting  into  trouble 
there,  -and  they  may  make  him  smart 
for  it." 

George  Godolphin  knew  that  he  al- 
luded to  the  ill-starred  Nick.  "  What 
are  the  circumstances  ?"  he  asked.  "  I 
will  tell  you  what  f  can." 

Sandy  entered  upon  the  story.  They 
stood  before  him,  absorbed  in  it, — 
for  Maria,  she  also  listened  with  in- 
terest,— when  an  exclamation  caused 
them  to  turn.  Maria  drew  her  hand 
from  George  Godolphin's  with  a 
quick  gesture.  There  stood  Charlotte 
Pain. 

Stood  there  with  a  white  face,  and 
a  flashing,  haughty  eye.  "  We  are 
coming  instantly,"  said  George.  "  We 
shall  catch  you  up;"  for  he  thought 
she  had  reappeared  to  remind  them. 

"  It  is  well,"  she  answered.  "And 
it  may  be  as  well  to  haste,  Mr.  George 
Godolphin,  if  you  would  see  your 
father  alive." 

"  What !"  he  answered.  But  Char- 
lotte had  turned  again,  and  was  gone 
like  the  wind.  With  all  his  speed,  he 
could  not  catch  her  up  until  they  had 
left  the  house  some  distance  behind. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   SHADOW. 

In  the  heart  of  the  town  of  Prior's 
Ash  was  situated  the  banking-house 
of  Godolphin,  Crosse,  and  Godolphin. 
Built  at  the  corner  of  a  street,  it  faced 
two  ways  :  the  bank  and  its  doors  be- 
ing in  High  Street,  the  principal  street 


80 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


of  the  town ;  the  entrance  to  the 
dwelling-house  being  in  Crosse  Street, 
a  new,  short  street,  not  much  frequent- 
ed, which  had  been  called  after  Mr. 
Crosse,  who  at  the  time  it  was  made 
lived  at  the  bank.  There  were  but 
six  or  eight  houses  in  Crosse  Street, — 
detached,  private  dwellings, — and  the 
street  led  to  the  open  country,  and  to 
a  pathway — not  a  carriage-way — that 
would,  if  you  liked  to  follow  it,  take 
you  to  Ashlydyat. 

The  house  attached  to  the  bank 
was  a  commodious  one, — its  rooms 
were  mostly  large  and  handsome, 
though  not  many  in  number.  A  pil- 
lared entrance,  to  which  you  ascended 
by  steps,  took  you  into  a  small  hall. 
On  the  right  of  this  hall,  as  you  en- 
tered, was  the  room  used  as  a  dining- 
room, — a  light  and  spacious  apart- 
ment, its  large  window  opening  on  a 
covered  terrace  where  plants  were 
kept,  and  that  again  standing  open  to 
a  sloping  lawn  surrounded  with  shrubs 
and  flowers.  This  room  was  hung 
with  fine  old  pictures  brought  from 
Ashlydyat.  Lady  Godolphin  did  not 
care  for  pictures  :  she  preferred  deli- 
cately-papered walls  :  and  but  few  of 
the  Ashlydyat  paintings  had  been  re- 
moved to  the  Folly.  On  the  left  of 
the  hall  were  the  rooms  pertaining  to 
the  bank.  At  the  back  of  the  hall, 
beyond  the  dining-room,  a  handsome 
well-staircase  led  to  the  apartments 
above,  one  of  which  was  a  fine  draw- 
i  ug-room.  From  the  upper  windows  at 
the  back  of  the  house  a  view  of  Lady 
(rodolphin's  Folly  might  be  obtained, 
rising  high  and  picturesque  ;  also  of 
the  turret  of  Ashlydyat,  grey  and 
grim, — not  of  Ashlydyat  itself:  its 
surrounding  trees  buried  it. 

This  dining-room — elegant  and  airy, 
and  fitted  up  with  exquisite  taste — was 
the  favorite  sitting-room  of  the  Miss 
Godolphins.  The  drawing-room  above 
— larger  and  grander,  less  comfortable, 
and  looking  on  to  the  high  street — was 
less  used  by  them.  In  this  lower 
room  there  sat  one  evening  Thomas 
Godolphin  and  his  eldest  sister.  It 
was  about  a  month  subsequent  to  that 
day,  at  the  commencement  of  this  his- 


tory, when  you  saw  the  hounds  throw 
off,  and  a  week  or  ten  days  since  Sir 
George  Godolphin  had  been  found  in- 
sensible on  the  floor  of  his  room  at 
Broomhead.  The  attack  had  proved 
to  be  nothing  but  a  prolonged  fainting- 
fit ;  but  even  that  told  upon  Sir  George 
in  his  shattered  state  of  health.  It 
had  caused  plans  to  be  somewhat 
changed.  Thomas  Godolphin's  visit 
to  Scotland  had  been  postponed ;  for 
Sir  George  was  not  strong  enough  for 
business  consultations, — which  would 
have  been  the  chief  object  of  his 
journey, — and  George  Godolphin  had 
not  yet  returned  to  Prior's  Ash. 

Thomas  and  Miss  Godolphin  had 
been  dining  alone.  Bessy  was  spend- 
ing the  evening  at  All  Souls'  Rec- 
tory :  she  and  Mr.  Hastings  were 
active  workers  together  in  parish  mat- 
ters :  and  Cecil  was  dining  at  Ashly- 
dyat. Mrs.  Verrall  had  called  in  the 
afternoon  and  carried  her  off.  The 
dessert  was  on  the  table,  but  Thomas 
had  turned  from  it,  and  was  sitting 
over  the  fire.  Miss  Godolphin  sat 
opposite  to  him,  nearer  the  table,  her 
fingers  busy  with  her  knitting,  on 
which  fell  the  rays  of  the  chandelier. 
They  were  discussing  plans  earnestly 
and  gravely. 

"  No,  Thomas,  it  would  not  do," 
she  was  saying.  "  We  must  go.  One 
of  the  partners  always  has  resided 
here  at  the  bank,  and  it  is  necessary, 
in  my  opinion,  that  one  should.  Let 
business  men  be  at  their  business." 

"But  look  at  the  trouble,  Janet,"  re- 
monstrated Thomas  Godolphin.  "Look 
at  the  expense.  You  may  be  no  sooner 
out  than  you  may  have  to  come  back 
again." 

Janet  turned  her  strangely-deep 
eyes  on  her  brother.  "  Do  not  make 
too  sure  of  that,  Thomas." 

"How  do  you  mean,  Janet?  In 
my  father's  precarious  state,  we  can- 
not, unhappily,  count  upon  his  life." 

"  Thomas,  I  am  sure, — I  seem  to 
see, — that  he  will  not  be  with  us  long. 
No  :  and  I  am  contemplating  the  time 
when  he  shall  have  left  us.  It  would 
change  many  things.  Your  home 
would  then  be  Ashlydyat." 


THE      SHADOW     OF     ASIILYDYAT, 


81 


Thomas  Godolphin  smiled.  As  if 
anv  power  would  keep  him  from  in- 
habiting Ashlydyat  when  he  should 
be  its  master.  "Yes,"  he  answered. 
"And  George*would  come  here." 

"  There  it  is !"  said  Janet.  "Would 
George  live  here  ?  I  do  not  feel  sure 
that  he  would." 

"  Of  course  he  would,  Janet.  He 
would  live  here  with  you,  as  I  do 
now.  That  is  a  perfectly  understood 
thing." 

"  Does  he  so  understand  it  ?" 

"  He  understands  it,  and  approves 
of  it." 

Janet,  shook  her  head.  "  George 
likes  his  liberty ;  he  will  not  be  con- 
tent to  settle  down  to  the  ways  of  a 
sober  household." 

"  Nay,  Janet,  you  must  remember 
one  thing.  WThen  George  shall  come 
to  this  house,  he  comes,  so  to  say,  as 
its  master.  He  will  not,  of  course, 
interfere  with  your  arrangements;  he 
will  fall  in  with  them  readily ;  but 
neither  will  he,  nor  must  he,  be  under 
your  control.  To  attempt  any  thing 
of  the  sort  again  would  not  do." 

Janet  knitted  on  in  silence.  She 
had  essayed  to  keep  Master  George 
under  her  hand  when  they  first  came 
to  the  bank  to  reside  :  and  the  result 
was  that  he  had  chosen  a  separate 
home,  where  he  could  be  entirely  en 
gargon. 

"Eh  me!"  sighed  Janet.  "If  young 
men  could  but  see  the  folly  of  their 
ways, — as  they  see  them  in  after-life  !" 

"  Therefore,  Janet,  I  say  that  it 
would  be  exceedingly  unadvisable  for 
you  to  leave  the  house,"  continued 
Thomas  Godolphin,  leaving  her  re- 
mark unnoticed.  "  It  might  be,  that, 
before  you  were  well  out  of  it,  you 
must  return  to  it." 

"  I  see  the  inconvenience  also  :  the 
uncertainty,"  she  answered.  "  But 
there  is  no  help  for  it." 

"Yes  there  is.  Janet,  I  wish  you 
would  let  me  settle  it. " 

"  How  would  you  settle  it  V 

"  By  bringing  Ethel  here, — on  a 
visit  to  you." 

Janet  laid  down  her  knitting.  "What 
do  you  mean  ?     That  there  should  be 


two  mistresses  in  Hie  house,  she  and 
I  ?  No,  no,  Thomas  ;  the  daftest  old 
wife  in  all  the  parish  would  tell  you 
that  does  not  do." 

"  Not  two  mistresses.  You  would 
be  sole  mistress,  as  you  are  now : 
I  and  Ethel  your  guests.  Janet,  in- 
deed it  would  be  the  best  plan.  By 
the  spring  we  should  see  how  Sir 
George  went  on.  If  he  improved, 
then  the  question  could  be  definitively 
settled :  and  either  you  or  I  would  fix 
upon  our  residence  elsewhere.  If  he 
does  not  improve,  I  fear,  Janet,  that 
the  spring  will  have  seen  the  end." 

Something  in  the  words  appeared 
to  excite  particularly  the  attention  of 
Janet.  She  gazed  at  Thomas  as  if 
she  would  search  him  through  and 
through.  "  By  the  spring  !"  she  re- 
peated. "When,  then,  do  you  con- 
template marrying  Ethel  ?" 

"  I  should  like  her  to  be  mine  by 
Christmas,"  was  the  low  answer. 

"  Thomas  !  And  December  close 
upon  us  !" 

"  If  not,  some  time  in  January," 
he  continued,  paying  no  heed  to  her 
surprise.     "  It  is  so  decided." 

Miss  Godolphin  drew  a  long  breath. 
"  With  whom  is  it  decided  ?" 

"With  Ethel." 

"  You'd  marry  a  wife,  without  a 
home  to  bring  her  to?  Had  thought- 
less George  told  me  that  he  was  going 
to  do  such  a  thing  I  could  have  be- 
lieved him.     Not  of  you,  Thomas  ?" 

"  Janet,  the  home  shall  no  longer 
be  a  barrier.  I  wish  you  would  re- 
ceive Ethel  here  as  your  guest." 

"  It  is  not  likely  that  she  would 
come.  The  first  thing  a  married  wo- 
man looks  out  for  is  to  have  a  home 
of  her  own." 

Thomas  laughed.  "  Not  come,  Ja- 
net? Have  you  yet  to  learn  how  un- 
assuming and  meek  is  the  character 
of  Ethel  ?  We  have  spoken  of  this 
plan  together,  and  Ethel's  only  fear 
is,  lest  she  should  '  be  in  the  way  of 
Miss  Godolphin.'  Failing  the  carry- 
ing out  of  this  project,  Janet, — for  I 
see  you  are,  as  I  thought  you  would 
be,  prejudiced  against  it, — I  shall  en- 
gage a  lodging  as  near  to  the  bank 


82 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


as  may  be,  and  there  I  shall  take 
Ethel." 

"  Would  it  be  seemly  that  the  heir 
of  Ashlydyat  should  go  into  lodgings 
on  his  marriage  ?"  asked  Janet,  grief 
and  sternness  in  her  tone. 

"  Things  are  seemly  or  unseemly, 
Janet,  according  to  circumstances.  It 
would  be  more  seemly  for  the  heir  of 
Ashlydyat  to  take  temporary  lodgings 
while  he  waited  for  Ashlydyat,  than 
for  him  to  turn  his  sisters  from  their 
home  for  a  month,  or  a  few  months, 
as  the  case  might  be.  The  pleasantest 
plan  would  be  for  me  to  bring  Ethel 
here. — entirely  as  your  guest.  It  is 
what  she  and  I  should  both  like.  If 
you  object,  I  shall  take  her  elsewhere. 
Bessy  and  Cecil  would  be  delighted 
with  the  arrangement :  they  are  fond 
of  Ethel." 

"  And  when  the  children  begin  to 
come,  Thomas  ?"  cried  Miss  Godol- 
phin,  in  her  old-fashioned,  steady, 
Scotch  manner.  She  had  a  great  deal 
of  her  mother  about  her. 

Thomas's  lips  parted  with  a  quaint 
smile.  "  Can  the  children  come  with 
that  speed,  Janet  ?  Things  will  be 
decided,  one  way  or  the  other,  months 
before  children  shall  have  had  time  to 
arrive." 

Janet  knitted  a  whole  row  before 
she  spoke.  "I  will  take  a  few  hours 
to  reflect  upon  it,  Thomas,"  she  said 
then. 

"Do  so,"  he  replied,  rising  and 
glancing  at  the  time-piece.  "Half- 
past  seven  !  What  time  will  Cecil 
expect  me  ?  I  wish  to  spend  half  an 
hour  with  Ethel.  Shall  I  go  for  Cecil 
before,  or  afterwards  ?" 

"  Go  for  Cecil  at  once,  Thomas.  It 
will  be  better  for  her  to  be  home 
early. " 

Thomas  Godolphin  went  to  the  hall- 
door  and  looked  out  upon  the  night. 
He  was  considering  whether  he  need 
put  on  an  overcoat.  It  was  a  bright 
moonlight  night,  warm  and  genial. 
So  he  shut  the  door,  and  started.  "  I 
wish  the  cold  would  come  !"  he  ex- 
claimed, half  aloud.  He  was  think- 
ing of  the  fever,  which  still  clung 
obstinately  to  Prior's  Ash,  showing 


itself  fitfully  and  partially  in  fresh 
places  about  every  third  or  fourth  day. 

He  took  the  foot-road  down  Crosse 
Street,— a  lonely  road,  and  at  night 
especially  unfrequented.  In  one  part 
of  it,  as  he  ascended  near  Ashlydyat. 
the  pathway  was  so  narrow  that  two 
people  could  scarcely  walk  abreast 
without  touching  the  trunks  of  the 
ash-trees  growing  on  either  side  and 
meeting  overhead.  A  murder  had 
been  committed  on  this  spot  a  few 
years  before, — a  sad  tale  of  barbarity, 
offered  to  a  girl  by  one  who  professed 
to  be  her  lover.  She  lay  buried  in 
All-Souls'  churchyard,  and  he  within 
the  walls  of  the  county  prison  where 
he  had  been  executed.  Of  course  the 
rumor  went  that  her  ghost  "walked" 
there, — the  natural  sequence  to  these 
dark  tales  ;  and  what  with  that,  and 
what  with  the  damp  loneliness  of  the 
place,  few  could  be  met  in  it  after 
dark. 

Thomas  Godolphin  went  steadily 
on, — his  thoughts  running  upon  the 
subject  of  his  conversation  with  Janet. 
It  is  probable  that  but  for  the  diffi- 
culty touching  a  residence,  Ethel 
would  have  been  his  the  past  autumn. 
When  any  thing  should  happen  to  Sir 
George,  Thomas  would  be  in  residen- 
tial possession  of  Ashlydyat  three 
months  afterwards, — such  had  been 
the  agreement  with  Mr.  Ycrrall  when 
he  took  Ashlydyat.  Not  in  his  father's 
lifetime  would  Thomas  Godolphin 
(clinging  to  the  fancies  and  traditions 
which  had  descended  with  the  old 
place)  consent  to  take  up  his  abode  as 
Ashlydyat's  master ;  but  no  longer 
than  was  absolutely  necessary  would 
he  remain  out  of  it  as  soon  as  it  was 
his  own.  George  would  then  remove 
to  the  bank,  which  would  still  be  his 
sister's  home,  as  it  was  now.  In  the 
event  of  George's  marrying,  the  Miss 
Godolphins  would  finally  leave  it ; 
but  George  Godolphin  did  not,  so  far 
as  people  saw,  give  indications  that  he 
was  likely  to  marry.  In  the  precari- 
ous state  of  Sir  George's  health — and 
it  was  pretty  sure  he  would  soon  either 
get  better  or  worse — these  changes 
might  take  place  any  day  :  therefore 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT 


83 


it  was  not  desirable  that  the  Miss 
Godolphins  should  quit  the  bank,  and 
that  the  trouble  and  expense  of  setting 
up  and  furnishing  a  home  for  them 
should  be  incurred.  Of  course  they 
could  not  go  into  into  lodgings.  Al- 
together, if  Janet  could  only  be  brought 
to  see  it,  Thomas's  plan  was  the  best, 
—  that  his  young  bride  should  be 
Janet's  guest  for  a  short  while. 

It  was  through  the  upper  part  of 
this  dark  path,  which  was  called  the 
Ash-tree  walk,  that  George  Godolphin 
had  taken  Maria  Hastings,  the  night 
they  had  left  Lady  Godolphin's  dinner- 
table  to  visit  the  Dark  Plain.  Thomas 
in  due  course  arrived  at  the  walk's 
end,  and  passed  through  the  turnstile. 
Lady  Godolphin's  Folly  lay  on  the 
right, — high  and  white  and  clear  in 
the  moonbeams.  Ashlydyat  lay  to 
the  left, — dark  and  grey,  and  nearly 
hidden  by  the  trees.  Greji  as  it  was, 
Thomas  looked  at  it  fondly  :  his  heart 
yearned  to  it:  and  it  was  to  be  the 
future  home  of  him  and  of  Ethel ! 

"  Halloa  !  who's  this  ?  Oh,  I  beg 
your  pai'don,  Mr.  Godolphin  !" 

The  speaker  was  Snow,  the  surgeon. 
He  had  come  swiftly  upon  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin, — turning  the  corner  round  the 
ash-trees  from  the  Dark  Plain.  That 
he  had  been  to  Ashlydyat  was  cer- 
tain,— for  the  road  led  nowhere  else. 
Thomas  did  not  know  that  illness  was 
in  the  house. 

"  Neither  did  I,"  said  Mr.  Snow  in 
answer  to  the  remark,  "  until  an  hour 
ago,  when  I  was  sent  for  in  haste." 

A  thought  crossed  Thomas  Godol- 
phin.    "  Not  a  case  of  fever,  I  hope  ?" 

"  No.  I  think  that's  leaving  us. 
There  has  been  an  accident  at  Ashly- 
dyat to  Mrs.  Verrall, — at  least,  what 
might  have  been  an  accident,  I  should 
rather  say,"  added  the  surgeon  cor- 
recting himself.  "  The  injury  is  so 
slight  as  not  to  be  worth  the  name  of 
one." 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  asked 
Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  She  managed  to  set  her  sleeve  on 
fire  :  a  white  lace,  or  muslin,  falling 
below  the  silk  sleeve  of  her  gown. 
In  standing  near  a  candle  the  flame 


caught  it.  But  now  look  at  that 
young  woman's  presence  of  mind  ! 
Instead  of  wasting  the  moments  in 
screams,  or  running  through  the  house 
from  top  to  bottom  and  bottom  to  top, 
as  most  would  have  done,  she  instantly 
threw  herself  down  on  the  rug,  and 
rolled  herself  in  it.  That's  the  sort 
of  woman  to  go  through  life." 

"  13  she  much  burnt  ?" 

"  Pooh  !  Many  a  child  gets  worse 
burnt  a  dozen  times  in  its  first  dozen 
years.  The  arm  between  the  elbow 
and  the  wrist  is  a  trifle  scorched.  It's 
nothing.  They  need  not  have  sent 
for  me  :  a  drop  of  cold  water  applied 
will  take  out  all  the  fire.  Your  sister 
Cecilia  was  ten  times  more  alarmed 
than  Mrs.  Verrall." 

"  I  am  truly  glad  it  is  no  worse,!'' 
said  Thomas  Godolphin.  "  I  feared 
the  fever  might  have  got  up  there." 

"That  is  taking  its  departure,  as  I 
think.  And  the  sooner  it's  gone,  the 
better.  It  has  been  capricious  as  a 
coquette's  smiles.  How  strange  it  is 
that  not  a  soul  down  by  those  pollard 
pig-stys  should  have  had  it,  except 
the  Bonds  !" 

"  It  is  equally  strange  that  in  many 
houses  it  should  have  attacked  only 
one  inmate,  and  spared  the  rest.  What 
do  you  think  now  of  Sarah  Anne 
Grame  ?" 

Mr.  Snow  shook  his  head,  and  his 
voice  grew  insensibly  low.  "  In  my 
opinion  she  is  sinking  fast.  I  found 
her  worse  this  afternoon, — weaker 
than  she  has  been  at  all.  Lady  Sarah 
said,  '  If  she  could  get  her  to  Vent- 
nor  !  — if  she  could  get  her  to  Hast- 
ings !'  But  the  removal  would  kill 
her  :  she'd  die  on  the  road.  It  will 
be  a  terrible  blow  to  Lady  Sarah,  if  it 
does  come  ;  and — though  it  may  seem 
harsh  to  say  it — a  retort  upon  her 
selfishness.  Did  you  know  that  they 
used  to  make  Ethel  head-nurse  while 
the  fever  was  upon  her  ?" 

"  No  !"  exclaimed  Thomas  Godol- 
phin. 

"  They  did,  then.  My  lady  inad- 
vertently let  it  out  to-day.  Dear  child  ! 
If  she  had  caught  it,  I  should  nevei 
have  forgiven   her  mother,  whatevei 


84 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


you  may  have  done.  Good-night.  I 
have  half  a  score  of  visits  now  to  pay, 
before  bedtime." 

"  Worse  !"  soliloquized  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin,  as  he  stepped  on.  "  Poor, 
peevish  Sarah  Anne  1  But, — I  won- 
der," he  hesitated  as  the  thought  struck 
him,  "  whether,  if  the  worst  should 
come,  as  Snow  seems  to. anticipate,  it 
would  delay  Ethel's  marriage  ?  What 
with  one  delay  and  another •" 

Thomas  Godolphin's  voice  ceased, 
and  his  heart  stood  still.  He  had 
turned  the  corner,  to  the  front  of  the 
grove  of  ash-trees,  and,  stretching  out 
before  him,  was  the  Dark  Plain,  with 
its  weird-like  bushes,  so  like  graves, 
and, — its  Shadow,  lying  cold  and  still 
in  the  white  moonlight.  Yes  1  there 
surely  lay  the  Shadow  of  Ashlydyat. 
The  grey  archway  rose  behind  it ;  the 
flat  plain  extended  out  before  it,  and 
the  Shadow  was  between  them,  all 
too  distinct.  The  first  shock  over, 
Thomas  Godolphin's  pulses  coursed 
on  again.  He  had  seen  that  Shadow 
before  in  his  lifetime,  but  he  halted  to 
gaze  at  it  again.  It  was  very  palpa- 
ble. The  bier — as  it  looked  like — in 
the  middle,  the  mourner  at  the  head, 
the  mourner  at  the  foot,  each — as  a 
spectator  could  fancy — with  bowed 
heads.  In  spite  of  the  superstition 
touching  this  strange  shadow,  in 
which  Thomas  Godolphin  had  been 
brought  up,  he  looked  round  now  for 
some  natural  explanation  of  it.  He 
was  a  man  of  intellect,  a  man  of  the 
world,  a  man  who  played  his  full 
share  in  the  practical  business  of 
every-day  life  :  and  such  men  are  not 
given  to  acknowledge  superstitious 
fancies  in  this  age  of  enlightenment, 
no  matter  what  bent  may  have  been 
given  to  their  minds  in  childhood. 
Therefore  Thomas  Godolphin  ranged 
his  eyes  round  and  round  in  the  air, 
and  could  see  nothing  that  would  solve 
the  myster}r.  "  I  wonder  whether  it 
be  possible  that  certain  states  of  the 
atmosphere  should  give  out  these 
shadows?"  he  soliloquized.  "But, — 
if  so, — why  should  it  invariably  ap- 
pear in  that  one  precise  spot,  and  in 


no  other  ?  Could  Snow  have  seen 
that,  I  wonder  ?" 

He  walked  on  towards  Ashlydyat, 
his  head  turned  sideways  always, 
looking  at  the  Shadow.  "  I  am  glad 
Janet  does  not  see  it !  It  would 
frighten  her  into  a  belief  that  my 
father's  end  was  near,"  came  his  next 
thought. 

Mrs.  Verrall,  playing  the  invalid, 
lay  on  a  sofa,  her  auburn  hair  some- 
what dishevelled,  her  pretty  pink- 
cheeks  flushed,  her  satin  slippers  peep- 
ing out, — altogether  challenging  ad- 
miration. The  damaged  arm,  its  silk 
sleeve  pinned  up,  was  stretched  out 
on  a  cushion, — a  small,  delicate  cam- 
bric handkerchief,  saturated  with  wa- 
ter, resting  lightly  on  the  burns.  A 
basin  of  water  stood  near,  with  a  simi- 
lar handkerchief  lying  in  it,  and  Mrs. 
Verrall's  maid  was  near  that,  ready 
to  change^  the  handkerchiefs  as  might 
be  required.  Thomas  Godolphin  drew 
a  chair  near  to  Mrs.  Verrall,  and  list- 
ened to  the  account  of  the  accident, 
giving  her  his  full  sympathy,  for  it 
might  have  been  a  bad  one. 

"  You  must  possess  great  presence 
of  mind,"  he  observed.  "  I  think  your 
showing  it,  as  you  have  done  in  this 
instance,  has  won  Mr.  Snow's  heart." 

Mrs.  Verrall  laughed.  "  I  believe 
I  do  possess  presence  of  mind.  And 
so  does  Charlotte.  Once  we  were  out 
with  some  friends  in  a  barouche,  and 
the  horses  took  fright,  ran  up  a  bank, 
turned  the  carriage  over,  and  nearly 
kicked  it  to  pieces.  While  all  with 
us  were  frightened  in  a  fearful  man- 
ner, Charlotte  and  I  remained  calm 
and  cool." 

"  It  is  a  good  thing  for  you,"  he 
observed. 

"  I  suppose  it  is.  Better,  at  any 
rate,  than  to  go  mad  with  fear,  as 
some  do.  Cecil," — turning  to  her, — 
"  has  had  enough  fright  to  last  her  for 
a  twelvemonth,  she  says." 

"  Were  you  present,  Cecil  ?"  asked 
her  brother. 

"  I  was  present,  but  I  did  not 
see  it,"  replied  Cecil.  "  It  occurred 
in  Mrs.  Verrall's  bedroom,  and  I  was 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


85 


standing  at  the  dressing-table,  with 
my  back  to  her.  The  first  I  knew,  or 
saw,  was  Mrs.  Verrall  on  the  floor, 
with  the  rug  rolled  round  her." 

The  tea  was  brought  in,  and  Mrs. 
Verrall  insisted  that  they  should  re- 
main for  it.  Thomas  pleaded  an  en- 
gagement, but  she  would  not  listen  : 
they  could  not  have  the  heart,  she 
said,  to  leave  her  all  alone.  So  Thom- 
as— the  very  essence  of  good  feeling 
and  politeness — waived  his  objection 
and  remained.  Not  the  bowing  po- 
liteness of  a  petit-maitre,  but  the  gen- 
uine considerations  that  spring  from 
a  noble  and  unselfish  heart. 

"  I  am  in  ecstasy  that  Verrall  was 
away,"  she  exclaimed.  "  He  would 
have  magnified  it  into  something  for- 
midable, and  I  should  not  have  been 
let  stir  for  a  month." 

"  When  do  you  expect  him  home  ?" 
asked  Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  I  never  do  expect  him  until  he 
comes,"  replied  Mrs.  Verrall.  "  Lon- 
don seems  to  possess  attractions  for 
him.  Once  up  there,  he  may  stay  a 
day,  or  he  may  stay  fifty.  I  never 
know." 

Cecil  went  up-stairs  to  put  her 
things  on  when  tea  was  over,  the 
maid  attending  her.  Mrs.  Verrall 
turned  her  head  to  see  that  the  door 
was  closed,  and  then  spoke  abruptly  : 

"  Mr.  Godolphin,  can  any  thing  be 
done  to  prevent  the  wind  whistling  as 
it  does  in  these  passages  ?" 

"  Does  it  whistle  ?"  he  replied. 

"  The  last  few  nights  it  has  whis- 
tled— oh,  I  cannot  describe  it  to  you  ! 
If  I  were  not  a  good  sleeper,  it  would 
have  kept  me  awake.  I  wish  it  could 
be  prevented." 

"  It  cannot  be  done,  I  believe,  with- 
out pulling  the  house  down,"  he  said. 
"  My  mother  had  a  great  dislike  to 
hear  it,  and  a  good  deal  of  expense 
was  gone  to  in  trying  to  remedy  it ; 
but  it  did  little  or  no  good." 

"  What  puzzles  me  is,  that  the  wind 
should  so  have  been  whistling  inside 
the  house,  when  there's  no  wind  to 
whistle   outside.      The   weather   has 


been  quite  calm.  Sometimes,  when 
it  is  actually  blowing  great  guns,  we 
cannot  hear  it  at  all." 

"  Something  peculiar  in  the  con- 
struction of  the  passages,"  he  care- 
lessly remarked.  "  You  hear  the  whis- 
tling sound,  or  not,  according  to  the 
quarter  in  which  the  wind  may  hap- 
pen to  be." 

"  The  servants  tell  a  tale, — these 
old  Ashlydyat  retainers  who  remain 
in  the  house,  —  that  this  strangely- 
sounding  wind  is  connected  with  the 
Ashlydyat  superstition,  and  foretells 
ill  to  the  Godolphins." 

Thomas  Godolphin  smiled.  "I  am 
sure  you  do  not  give  ear  to  any  thing 
so  foolish,  Mrs.  Verrall." 

"  No,  that  I  do  not,"  she  answered. 
"  It  would  take  a  great  deal  to  imbue 
me  with  faith  in  the  supernatural. 
Ghosts  !  Shadows  !  As  if  anybody 
with  common  sense  could  believe  in 
such  impossibilities  !  They  tell  an- 
other tale  about  here,  do  they  not  ? 
That  a  shadow  of  some  sort  may  oc- 
casionally be  seen  in  the  moonbeams, 
in  front  of  the  archway,  on  the  Dark 
Plain, — a  shadow  cast  by  no  earthly 
substance.  Charlotte  once  declared 
she  saw  it.  How  I  laughed  at 
her !" 

His  lips  parted  as  he  listened,  and 
he  lightly  echoed  the  laugh  spoken  of 
as  Charlotte's.  Considering  what  his 
eyes  bad  just  seen,  the  laugh  must 
have  been  a  very  conscious  one. 

"  When  do  you  expect  your  brother 
home  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Verrall.  "  He 
seems  to  be  making  a  stay  at  Broom- 
head." 

"  George  is  not  at  Broomhead,"  re- 
plied Thomas  Godolphin.  "  He  left 
three  or  four  days  ago.  He  has  joined 
a  party  of  friends  in  the  Highlands. 
I  do  not  suppose  he  will  return  here 
much  before  Christmas." 

Cecil  appeared.  They  wished  Mrs. 
Verrall  good-night,  and  a  speedy  cure 
from  her  burns,  and  departed.  Thom- 
as took  the  open  road-way  this  time, 
which  did  not  lead  them  near  the  ash- 
trees  or  the  Dark  Plain. 


36 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


CHAPTER   XL 

A  TELEGRAPHIC   DISPATCH. 

"  Cecil,"  asked  Thomas  Godolphin, 
as  they  walked  along,  "  how  came  you 
to  go  alone  to  the  Verralls',  in  this  im- 
promptu fashion  ?" 

"  There  was  no  harm  in  it,"  an- 
swered Cecil,  who  possessed  a  spice 
of  self-will.  "  Mrs.  Verrall  said  she 
was  lonely,  and  it  would  be  a  charity 
if  I  or  Bessy  would  go  home  with  her. 
Bessy  could  not :  she  was  engaged  to 
the  rectory.  Where  was  the  harm  ?" 
"  My  dear,  had  there  been  '  harm,'  I 
am  sure  you  would  not  have  wished 
to  go.  There  was  none.  Only  I  do 
not  care  that  you  should  become  upon 
very  intimate  terms  with  the  Verralls. 
A  little  visiting  on  either  side  cannot 
be  avoided  ;  but  let  it  end  there." 

"Thomas,  you  are  just  like  Janet!" 
impulsively  spoke  Cecil.  "  She  does 
not  like  the  Verralls." 

"  Neither  do  I.     I  do  not  like  him. 

I  do  not  like  Charlotte  Pain " 

"  Janet  again  1"  struck  in  Cecil. 
•'She  and  you  must  be  constituted 
precisely  alike  ;  for  you  are  sure  to 
have  the  same  likes  and  dislikes.  She 
would  not  willingly  let  me  go  to-day  ; 
only  she  could  not  refuse  without 
downright  rudeness." 

"I  like  Mrs.  Verrall  the  best  of 
them,  I  was  going  to  say,"  he  contin- 
ued. "  Do  not  get  too  intimate  with 
them,  Cecil." 

"But  vou  know  nothing  against 
Mr.  Verrall  ?" 

"  Nothing  whatever  :  except  that  I 
cannot  make  him  out." 

"How  do  you  mean — 'make  him 
out'?  " 

"  Well,  Cecil,  it  may  be  difficult  to 
define  my  meaning  so  that  you  will 
understand  it.  Verrall  is  so  impas- 
sive ;  so  utterly  silent  with  regard  to 
himself.  Who  is  he  ?  Where  did  he 
come  from  ?  Did  he  drop  from  the 
moon  ?  Where  has  he  previously 
lived  ?  What  are  his  family  ?  Where 
does  his  property  lie  ? — in  the  funds, 
or  in  land,  or  in  securities,  or  what  ? 
Most  men,  even  though  they  do  come 


strangers  into  a  neighborhood,  supply 
indications  of  some  of  these  things/ 
either  accidentally  or  purposely." 

"  They  have  lived  in  London,"  said 
Cecil. 

"  London  is  a  wide  place,"  answered 
Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  And  I'm  sure  they  have  plenty  of 
money." 

"  There's  where  the  chief  puzzle  is. 
When  people  possess  so  much  money 
as  Verrall  appears  to  do,  they  gene- 
rally make  no  secret  of  whence  it  is 
derived.  Understand,  my  dear,  I  cast 
no  suspicion  to  him  in  any  way ;  I 
only  say  that  we  know  nothing  of  him  ; 
or  of  the  ladies  either " 

"  They  are  very  charming  ladies," 
interrupted  Cecil  again  :  "  especially 
Mrs.  Verrall." 

"  Beyond  the  fact  that  they  are  very 
charming  ladies,"  acquiesced  Thomas, 
in  a  tone  that  made  Cecil  think  he  was 
laughing  at  her  :  "  you  should  let  me 
finish,  my  dear.  But  I  would  prefer 
that  they  were  rather  more  open  as  to 
themselves,  before  they  became  the  too 
intimate  friends  of  Miss  Cecilia  Go- 
dolphin." 

Cecil  dropped  the  subject.  She  did 
not  always  agree  with  what  she  called 
Thomas's  prejudices.  "  How  quaint 
that  old  doctor  of  ours  is  !"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  When  he  had  looked  at 
Mrs.  Verrall's  arm,  he  made  a  great 
parade  of  getting  out  his  spectacles, 
and  putting  them  on,  and  looking 
again.  '  What  d'ye  call  it — a  burn  V 
he  asked  her.  '  It  is  a  burn,  is  it  not  ?' 
she  answered,  looking  at  him.  '  No,' 
said  he,  '  it's  nothing  but  a  singe.'  It 
made  her  laugh  so.  I  think  she  was 
pleased  to  have  escaped  with  so  little 
damage. " 

"  That  is  just  like  Snow,"  said 
Thomas  Godolphin. 

Arrived  at  home,  Miss  Godolphin 
was  in  the  same  place,  knitting  still. 
It  was  half  past  nine, — too  late  for 
Thomas  to  pay  his  visit  to  Lady  Sa- 
rah's. "Janet,  I  fear  you  have  wait- 
ed tea  for  us  ?"  said  Cecil. 

"  To  be  sure,  child  :  I  expected  you 
home  to  it." 

Cecil  explained  why  they  did  not 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


37 


come,  telling  of  the  accident  to  Mrs. 
Verrall.  "  Eh  !  but  it's  like  the 
young  1"  said  Janet,  lifting  her  hands. 
"  Careless  !  careless  !  she  might  have 
been  burnt  to  death." 

"  She  would  have  been  very  much 
more  burnt  had  her  dress  not  been 
silk,''  observed  Thomas.  "  Had  it 
been  of  muslin,  like  the  sleeve,  it  must 
have  caught." 

Miss  Godolphin  laid  down  her  knit- 
ting and  approached  the  tea-table. 
None  must  preside  at  the  meals  but 
herself.  She  inquired  of  Thomas 
whether  he  was  going  out  again. 

"I  suppose  not,"  he  answered, 
speaking,  however,  somewhat  indeci- 
sively. "  I  should  like  to  have  gone, 
though.  Snow  tells  me  Sarah  Anne 
is  worse. " 

"Weaker,  I  conclude,"  said  Janet. 

"Weaker  than  she  has  been  at  all. 
He  thinks  there's  no  hope  of  her  now. 
No :  I  will  not  disturb  them,"  he  de- 
cisively added.  "  It  would  be  hard 
upon  ten  o'clock  by  the  time  I  got 
there." 

He  took  a  seat  near  the  fire.  Janet 
went  on  preparing  the  tea.  He  and 
Cecil  both  knew  that  she  would  ex- 
pect them  to  take  a  cup,  Avhether  they 
liked  it  or  not. 

"  What  sort  of  a  night  is  it  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  A  lovely  night,"  he  answered. 
"  Calm  and  still,  and  the  moon  as 
bright  as  day.  I  wish  a  good  strong 
wind  would  spring  up  and  blow  the 
sickness  away ;  or  a  fortnight's  hard 
frost." 

"  Oh,  talking  of  wind,  Thomas," 
interrupted  Cecil,  who  had  been  put- 
ting her  bonnet  upon  a  side-table, 
"  did  Mrs.  Verrall  ask  you  if  any  thing 
could  be  done  to  the  passages  of  Ash- 
lydyat  ?  She  said  she  should.  For 
the  last  few  days,  the  sound  of  the 
wind  has  been  so  great  in  them  as  to 
disturb  the  house." 

Janet  laid  down  the  tea-pot  and 
faced  her  young  sister,  a  strange  ex- 
pression of  dismay  upon  her  face. 
"  Cecil !"  she  uttered^  below  her  breath. 
Cecil  was  surprised.  Janet  turned 
to  Thomas  and  gazed  at  him  inquir- 


ingly. But  his  face  remained  qm  »tly 
impassive.  Janet  took  up  the  tea  pot 
again. 

"What  a  loud  ring!"  exclai  ned 
Cecil,  as  the  hall-bell,  pulled  wit.i  no 
gentle  hand,  echoed  and  echoed 
through  the  house.  "  Should  it  be 
Bessy  come  home,  she  thinks  she  will 
let  us  know  who's  there." 

It  was  not  Bessy.  A  servant  en- 
tered the  room  with  a  telegraphic  de- 
spatch. "  The  man  is  waiting,  ksir," 
he  said,  holding  out  the  paper  for  sig- 
nature to  his  master. 

Thomas  Godolphin  affixed  his  sig- 
nature, and  took  up  the  despatch.  It 
came  from  Scotland.  Janet  laid  her 
hand  upon  it  ere  it  was  open :  her 
face  looked  ghastly  pale.  "  A  mor  ent 
of  preparation  !"  she  said.  "  Thonas. 
it  may  have  brought  us  the  tidragi? 
that  we  have  no  longer  a  father." 

"  Nay,  Janet,  do  not  anticipate  c'il,:' 
he  answered,  though  his  memory 
flew  unaccountably  back  to  that  v(}\ 
shadow,  and  to  what  he  had  deeiaed 
would  be  Janet's  conclusions  resp<?ct- 
ins;  it.  "It  ma}r  not  be  ill  newti  at 
all." 

He  glanced  his  eye  rapidly  and  pri- 
vately over  it,  while  Cecil  came  i»nd 
stood  near  him  with,  a  stifled  sob. 
Then  he  held  it  out  to  Janet,  read  ng 
it  aloud  at  the  same  time. 

"  '  Lady  Godolphin  to  Thomas  J  lo- 
dolphin,  Esquire. 

"'Come  at  once  to  Broomheid. 
Sir  George  wishes  it.  Take  the  £  rst 
train.' " 

"He  is  not  dead,  at  any  rate,  Jam  t." 
said  Thomas,  quietly.  "Thank  ha- 
ven!" 

Janet,  her  extreme  fears  relieved, 
took  refuge  in  displeasure.  "What 
does  Lady  Godolphin  mean  by  se/ .cl- 
ing a  vague  message  like  that  ?"  ih*. 
uttered.  "  Is  Sir  George  worse  ?  I- 
he  ill  ?  Is  he  in  danger  ?  Or  has  ;  he 
summons  not  reference  at  all  to  ?iis 
state  of  health  ?" 

Thomas  had  taken  it  in  his  hi  id 
again,  and  was  studying  the  words  — 
as  we  are  all  apt  to  do  when  in  '  i- 
eertaintv.  He  could  make  no  m  -e 
out  of  them. 


88 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


"  Lady  Godolpbin  should  have  been 
more  explicit,"  he  resumed. 

"  Lady  Godolpbin  has  no  right  thus 
to  play  upon  our  fears,  upon  our  sus- 
pense," said  Janet.  "  Thomas,  I  have 
a  great  mind  to  start  this  night  for 
Scotland." 

"As  you  please,  of  course,  Janet. 
It  is  a  long  and  fatiguing  journey  for 
a  winter's  night." 

"  And  I  object  to  being  a  guest  at 
Broomhead,  unless  driven  to  it  by 
compulsion,  you  might  add,"  rejoined 
Janet.  "But  our  father  may  be  dy- 
ing." 

"  I  should  think  not,  Janet.  Lady 
Godolphin  would  certainly  have  said 
it.  Margery,  too,  would  have  taken 
care  that  those  tidings  should  be  sent 
to  us." 

The  suggestion  reassured  Miss  Go- 
dolphin.  She  had  not  thought  of  it. 
Margery,  entirely  devoted  to  the  in- 
terests of  Sir  George  and  his  children 
(somewhat  in  contravention  to  the 
interests  of  my  lady)  would  undoubt- 
edly have  apprized  them  were  Sir 
George  in  danger.  "  What  shall  you 
do  ?"  inquired  Janet  of  her  brother. 

"  I  shall  do  as  the  despatch  desires 
me, — take  the  first  train.  Which  will 
be  at  midnight." 

"  Give  it  to  me  again,"  said  Janet. 

He  put  the  despatch  in  her  hand, 
and  she  sat  down  with  it,  apparently 
studying  its  every  word.  "  Vague  ! 
vague  !  can  any  thing  be  by  possibility 
more  vague?"  she  complained.  "It 
leaves  us  utterly  in  doubt  of  the  mo- 
tive for  sending.  Lady  Godolphin 
must  have  done  it  purposely  to  try 
our  feelings." 

"  She  has  done  it  in  carelessness," 
surmised  Thomas. 

"  Which  is  as  reprehensible  as  the 
other,"  severely  answered  Janet. 
"  Thomas,  should  you  find  danger 
when  you  get  there,  you  will  not  lose 
a  moment  in  telegraphing  to  me." 

"  I  should  be  sure  to  do  so,"  was  his 
answer. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  continued 
Janet, — for  he  was  preparing  to  go 
out. 


"As  far  as  Lady  Sarah's." 

Leaving  the  warm  room  for  the 
street,  the  night  air  seemed  to  strike 
upon  him  with  a  chill,  which  he  had 
not  experienced  when  he  went  out 
previously,  and  he  returned  and  put 
on  his  great-coat.  He  could  not 
leave  Prior's  Ash  before  midnight, 
unless  he  had  commanded  a  special 
train,  which  the  circumstances  did 
not  appear  to  call  for.  At  12-5  a 
mail-train  passed  through  the  place, 
stopping  at  the  station ;  and  by  that 
he  resolved  to  go. 

Grame  House,  as  you  may  remem- 
ber, was  situated  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  town  to  Ashlydyat,  past  All 
Souls'  Church.  Thomas  Godolpbin 
walked  briskly  along  the  pavement, 
his  thoughts  running  upon  many 
things,  but  chiefly  on  the  unsatisfac- 
tory despatch.  Very  unsatisfactory 
he  felt  it  to  be  ;  almost  unpardonably 
so :  and  a  vague  fear  crossed  and 
recrossed  his  mind  that  Sir  George 
might  be  in  danger.  Looking  at  it 
from  a  sober  point  of  view,  his  judg- 
ment said  No.  But  we  cannot  always 
look  at  suspense  soberly :  neither 
could  Thomas  Godolphin. 

A  dark  figure  was  leaning  over  the 
rectory  gate,  shaded  by  the  dark 
trees  from  the  rays  of  the  moon. 
But  though  the  features  of  the  face 
were  obscure,  the  outline  of  the  cleri- 
cal hat  was  visible  ;  and  by  that  Mr. 
Hastings  could  be  known.  Thomas 
Godolphin  stopped. 

"  You  are  going  this  way  late,'' 
said  the  rector. 

"  It  is  late  for  a  visit  to  Lady  Sarah's. 
But  I  wish  particularly  to  see  them.'' 

"  I  have  now  come  from  thence, " 
returned  Mr.  Hastings. 

"  Sarah  Anne  grows  weaker,  I 
hear." 

"Ay.  I  have  been  saying  prayers 
over  her." 

Thomas  Godolphin  felt  shocked. 
"  Is  she  so  near  death  as  that  f"  he 
asked,  in  a  hushed  tone. 

"  So  near  death  as  that !"  repeated 
the  clergyman,  in*an  accent  of  reproof. 
"  I  did  not  think  to  hear  a  like  remark 


THE     SHADOW     OF     ASHLYDYAT 


89 


from  Mr.  Godolphin.  My  good  friend, 
is  it  only  when  death  is  near  that  we 
are  to  pray  ?" 

"It  is  mostly  when  death  is  near 
that  prayers  are  said  over  xjlb"  replied 
Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  True, — for  those  who  have  known 
when  and  how  to  pray  for  themselves. 
Look  at  that  girl :  passing  away  from 
among  us  with  all  her  worldly  thoughts, 
her  selfish  habits,  her  evil,  peevish 
temper  !  But  that  God's  ways  are 
not  as  our  ways,  we  might  be  tempted 
to  question  why  such  as  these  are  re- 
moved ;  such  as  Ethel  left:  the  one 
child  as  near  akin  to  an  angel  as  it  is 
well  possible  to  be,  here  ;  the  other 

.    In  our  blind  judgment,  we  may 

wonder  that  she,  most  ripe  for  heaven, 
should  not  be  taken  to  it,  and  that 
other  one  left,  to  be  pruned  and  dug 
around, — to  have,  in  short,  a  chance 
given  her  of  making  herself  better." 

"  Is  she  so  very  ill  ?" 

"  I  think  her  so  :  as  does  Snow.  It 
was  what  he  had  said  that  sent  me  up. 
Her  frame  of  mind  is  not  a  desirable 
one  ;  and  I  have  been  trying  to  do  my 
part.  I  shall  be  with  her  again  to- 
morrow." 

Thomas  Godolphin  walked  onwards. 
Ere  he  had  gone  many  steps,  he  re- 
membered that  Maria  Hastings  was 
at  Broomhead,  and  it  might  be  civil 
to  tell  the  rector  of  his  journey. 
"  Have  you  any  message  for  your 
daughter  ?"  he  asked.  "  I  start  in 
two  hours  time  for  Scotland."  And 
then  he  explained  why, — telling  of 
their  uncertainty. 

"When  shall  you  be  coming  back 
again  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Hastings. 

"  Within  a  week,  unless  my  father's 
state  should  forbid  it.  I  may  be  wish- 
ing to  take  a  holiday  at  Christmas 
time,  or  thereabouts  ;  so  shall  not  stay 
away  now.     George  is  absent,  too. " 

"  Staying  at  Broomhead  ?" 

"No:  he  is  not  at  Broomhead 
now." 

"Will  you  take  charge  of  Maria 
back  again  ?     We  want  her  home  " 

"If  you  wish  it,  I  will.  But  I 
should  think  thev  would  all  be  return- 


ing very  shortly.  Christmas  is  in- 
tended to  be  spent  here." 

"  You  may  depend  upon  it,  Christ- 
mas will  not  see  Lady  Godolphin  at 
Prior's  Ash  unless  the  fever  shall 
have  departed  to  spend  its  Christmas 
in  some  other  place,"  cried  the  rector. 

"  Well,  I  shall  hear  their  plans  when 
I  get  there." 

"  Bring  Maria  with  you,  Mr.  Go- 
dolphin. Tell  her  it  is  my  wish.  Un- 
less you  find  that  there's  a  prospect 
of  her  speedy  return  with  Lady  Go- 
dolphin. In  that  case  you  may  leave 
her." 

"Yery  well,"  replied  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin. 

He  continued  his  way,  and  Mr. 
Hastings  looked  after  him  in  the  bright 
moonlight  till  his  form  disappeared  in 
the  shadows  cast  by  the  road-side  trees. 

It  was  striking  ten  as  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin opened  the  iron  gate  at  Lady 
Sarah  Grame's  :  the  heavy  booming 
bell  of  the  clock  at  All  Souls'  came 
sounding  against  his  ear  in  the  still- 
ness of  the  calm  night.  The  house, 
all  save  from  one  window,  looked 
dark  :  even  the  hall-lamp  was  out,  and 
he  feared  they  might  all  have  retired. 
From  that  window  a  dull  light  shone 
behind  the  blind  :  a  stationary  light  it 
had  been  of  late,  to  be  seen  by  any 
nocturnal  wayfarer  all  night  long  ;  for 
it  came  from  the  sick-chamber. 

Elizabeth  opened  the  door.  "  Oh, 
sir !"  she  exclaimed,  in  the  surprise 
of  seeing  him  so  late,  "I  think  Miss 
Ethel  has  gone  up  to  bed." 

Lady  Sarah  came  running  down  the 
stairs  as  he  stepped  into  the  hall :  she 
also  was  surprised  at  the  late  visit 

"  I  would  not  have  disturbed  you, 
but  that  I  am  about  to  depart  for 
Broomhead,"  he  explained.  "A  tele- 
graphic despatch  has  arrived  from 
Lady  Godolphin,  calling  me  thither. 
I  should  like  to  see  Ethel,  if  conve- 
nient. I  know  not  how  long  I  may 
be  away." 

"  I  sent  Ethel  to  bed :  her  head 
ached,"  said  Lady  Sarah.  "  It  is  not 
many  minutes  since  she  went  up.  Oh, 
Mr.  Godolphin,  this  has  been  such  a 


90 


THE     SHADOW     OF     ASHLYDYAT 


be  worse  on  this 
don't  know  what 
Ethel !"  was  the 
Mr.  Godolphin   is 


lay  of  grief!  heads  and  hearts  alike 
aching." 

Thomas  Godolphin  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  Lady  Sarah  Grame  pro- 
ceeded to  her  younger  daughter's 
chamber.  Softly  opening  the  door, 
she  looked  in.  Ethel,  undisturbed  by 
the  noise  of  Thomas  Godolphin's  visit, 
— for  she  had  not  supposed  it  to  be  a 
visit  relating  to  her, — was  kneeling 
down  beside  the  bed,  saying  her  pray- 
ers, her  fair  face  buried  in  her  hands, 
her  hands  buried  in  the  counterpane, 
and  the  light  from  the  candle  shining 
on  her  smooth  hair.  A  minute  or  two, 
during  which  Lady  Sarah  remained 
still,  and  then  Ethel  rose.  She  had 
not  yet  begun  to  undress. 

It  was  the  first  intimation  she  had 
that  any  one  was  there,  and  she  re- 
coiled with  surprise.  "  Mamma,  how 
you  startled  me  !  Sarah  Anne  is  not 
worse  ?" 

"  She  can't  well 
side  the  grave  .  t 
you   would   have, 
peevish   retort.     " 
below  and  wants  to  see  you." 

She  went  down  instantly.  Lady 
Sarah  did  not  accompany  her,  but 
passed  into  her  sick  daughter's  room. 
The  fire  in  the  drawing-room  was 
alight  still,  and  Elizabeth  had  been  in 
to  Btir  it  up.  Thomas  Godolphin  stood 
over  it  with  Ethel,  telling  her  of  his 
coming  journey  and  its  cause.  The 
red  embers  threw  a  glow  upon  her 
face :  her  brow  looked  heavy,  her 
eyes  swollen. 

He  saw  the  signs,  and  laid  his  hand 
fondly  upon  her  head.  "  What  has 
given  you  the  headache,  Ethel  ?" 

The  ready  tears  came  into  her  eyes, 
glistening  on  her  eyelids.  "  It  does 
ache  very  much,"  she  answered. 

"  Has  crying  caused  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  "  It  is  of  no 
use  to  deny  it,  for  you  would  see  it 
by  my  swollen  eyelids.  I  have  wept 
to-day  until  it  seems  that  I  can  weep 
no  longer,  and  it  has  made  my  eyes 
ache  and  my  head  dull  and  heavy." 

"  But,  my  darling,  you  should  not 
give  way  to  this  grief.  It  may  render 
you  seriously  ill." 


"  Oh,  Thomas,  bow  can  I  help  it  ?" 
she  returned,  with  emotion,  as  the 
tears  dropped  swiftly  over  her  cheeks. 
"  We  begin  to  see  that  there  is  no 
chance  of  Sarah  Anne's  recovery. 
Mr.  Snow  told  mamma  so  to-day  ;  and 
he  sent  up  Mr.  Hastings. " 

"  Ethel,  will  your  grieving  alter  it  ?" 

Ethel  wept  silently.  There  was 
full  and  entire  confidence  between 
her  and  Thomas  Godolphin :  she 
could  tell  out  all  her  thoughts,  her 
troubles  to  him,  as  she  could  have 
told  them  to  a  mother, — if  she  had 
had  a  mother  who  loved  her. 

"  If  she  were  but  a  little  more 
fit  to  go,  the  pain  would  seem  less," 
breathed  Ethel.  "  That  is,  we  might 
feel  more  reconciled  to  losing  her. 
But  you  know  what  she  is,  Thomas. 
When  I  have  tried  to  talk  a  little  bit 
about  heaven,  or  to  read  a  psalm  to 
her,  she  would  not  listen  :  she  said 
it  made  her  dull,  it  gave  her  the 
horrors.  How  can  she,  who  has 
never  thought  of  God,  be  fit  to  meet 
him  ?" 

Ethel's  tears  were  deepening  into 
sobs.  Thomas  Godolphin  involun- 
tarily thought  of  what  Mr.  Hastings 
had  just  said  to  him.  His  hand  still 
rested  on  the  head  of  Ethel. 

"You  are  fit  to  meet  him!"  he 
exclaimed,  involuntarily.  "  Ethel, 
whence  can  have  arisen  the  difference 
between  you  ?  You  are  sisters ; 
reared  in  the  same  home." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Ethel,  simply. 
"I  have  always  thought  a  great  deal 
about  heaven ;  I  suppose  it  is  that. 
A  lady,  whom  we  knew  as  children, 
used  to  buy  us  a  good  many  stor}7- 
books,  and  mine  were  always  stories 
of  heaven.  It  was  that  which  first 
got  me  into  the  habit  of  thinking  of 
it." 

"  And  why  not  Sarah  Anne  ?" 

"  Sarah  Anne  would  not  read  them 
She  liked  stories  of  gayety ;  balls,  ana 
such-like." 

Thomas  smiled ;  the  words  were  so 
simple  and  natural.  "  Had  the  fiat 
gone  forth  for  you,  instead  of  for  her, 
Ethel,  it  would*  have  brought  you  no 
dismnv." 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASTILYDYAT 


91 


"  Only  that  T  must  leave  all  my 
deal'  ones  behind  me,"  she  answered, 
looking  up  at  him,  a  bright  smile 
shining  through  her  tears.  "  I  should 
know  that  God  would  not  take  me, 
unless  it  were  for  the  best.  Oh, 
Thomas,  if  we  could  but  save  her!" 

"  Child,  you  contradict  yourself. 
If  what  God  does  must  be  for  the 
best — and  it  is — that  thought  should 
reconcile  you  to  the  parting  with 
Sarah  Anne." 

"  y_es,"  hesitated  Ethel.  "Only 
I  fear  she  has  never  thought  of  it 
herself,  or  in  any  way  prepared  for 
it." 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  have  to  find 
fault  with  you?"  resumed  Thomas 
Godolphin,  after  a  pause.  "  You 
have  not  been  true  to  me,  Ethel." 

She  turned  her  eyes  upon  him  in 
complete  surprise,  the  tears  drying 
up. 

"Did  you  not  promise  me — did  you 
not  promise  Mr.  Snow — not  to  enter 
your  sister's  chamber  while  the  fever 
was  upon  her  ?  I  hear  that  you 
were  in  it  often, — her  head  nurse." 

The  hot  color  flushed  into  the  face 
of  Ethel.  "Forgive  me,  Thomas," 
she  whispered.  "  I  conld  not  help  my- 
self. Sarah  Anne — it  was  on  the 
third,  morning  of  her  illness,  when  I 
was  getting  up — suddenly  began  to 
cry  out  for  me  very  much,  and  mam- 
ma came  to  my  bed-room  and  desired 
me  to  go  to  her.  I  said  that  Mr. 
Snow  had  forbidden  me,  and  that  I 
had  promised  you.  It  made  mamma 
angry;  she  'asked  if  I  could  be  so 
selfish  as  to  regard  a  promise  before 
Sarah  Anne's  life  ;  that  she  might  die 
if  I  thwarted  her :  and  she  took  me 
by  the  arm  and  pulled  me  in.  I 
would  have  told  you,  Thomas,  that  I 
had  broken  my  word;  I  wished  to  tell 
you  ;  but  mamma  forbid  me." 

Thomas  Godolphin  stood  looking 
at  her.  There  was  nothing  to  answer : 
he  had  known,  in  his  deep  and  trust- 
ing love,  that  the  fault  had  not  lain 
with  Ethel.  She  mistook  his  silence, 
thinking  he  was  vexed. 

"  You  know,  Thomas,  so  long  as  I 
am  here  in  mamma's  home,  her  child, 


it  is  to  her  that  I  owe  obedience,"  she 
gently  pleaded.  "  As  soon  as  I  shall 
be  your  wife,  I  shall  owe  it  and  give 
it  implicitly  to  you." 

"  You  are  right,  my  darling." 

"  And  it  was  productive  of  no  ill 
consequences,"  she  resumed.  "  I  did 
not  catch  the  fever.  Had  I  found  my- 
self growing  in  the  least  ill,  I  should 
have  sent  for  you  and  told  you  the 
truth." 

"Ethel,"  he  impulsively  cried,  very 
impulsively  for  calm  Thomas  Godol- 
phin, "  had  you  caught  the  fever,  I 
should  never  have  forgiven  those  who 
led  you  into  the  danger.  I  could  not 
lose  you." 

"  Hark  1"  said  Ethel.  "  Mamma  is 
calling." 

Lady  Sarah  had  been  calling  to  Mr. 
Godolphin.  Thinking  she  was  not 
heard,  she  now  came  down  the  stairs 
and  entered  the  room,  wringing  her 
hands ;  her  eyes  were  moist,  her  sharp, 
thin  nose  was  redder  than  usual. 
"  Oh  dear,  I  don't  know  what  we  shall 
do  with  her  !"  she  uttered.  "  She  is 
so  ill,  and  it  makes  her  so  fretful. 
Mr.  Godolphin,  nothing  will  satisfy 
her  now  but  she  must  see  you." 

"  See  me  !"  repeated  he. 

"  She  will,  she  says.  I  told  her 
you  were  departing  for  Scotland, 
and  she  burst  out  crying,  and  said  if 
she  was  to  die  she  sbould  never  see 
you  again.  Do  you  mind  going  in  ? 
You  are  not  afraid  ?" 

"No,  I  am  not  afraid,"  said  Thomas 
Godolphin.  "  The  infection  cannot 
have  remained  all  this  while.  And 
if  it  had,  I  should  not  fear  it." 

Lady  Sarah  Grame  led  the  way 
up-stairs.  Thomas,  followed  her. 
Ethel  stole  in  afterwards.  Sarah 
Anne  lay  in  bed,  her  thin  face,  drawn 
and  white,  raised  upon  the  pillow : 
her  hollow  eyes  were  strained  forward 
with  a  fixed  look.  Ill  as  he  had  been 
led  to  suppose  her,  he  was  scarcely 
prepared  to  see  her  like  this  ;  and  it 
shocked  him.  A  cadaverous  face, 
looking  ripe  for  the  tomb. 

"Why  have  you  never  come  to  see 
me  ?"  she  asked,  in  her  hollow  voice, 
as  he  approached  and  leaned  over  her. 


92 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


"  You'd  never  have  come  till  I  died. 
You  only  care  for  Ethel." 

"  I  would  have  come  to  see  you  had 
I  known  you  wished  it,"  he  answered. 
"  But  you  do  not  look  strong  enough 
to  receive  visitors." 

"  They  might  cure  me  if  they  would," 
she  continued,  her  breath  panting.  "  I 
want  to  go  away  somewhere,  and  that 
Snow  won't  let  me.  If  it  were  Ethel, 
he  would  take  care  to  cure  her." 

"He  will  let  you, go  as  soon  as  you 
are  equal  to  it,  I  am  sure,"  said 
Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  Why  should  the  fever  have  come 
to  me  at  all  ? — why  couldn't  it  have 
gone  to  Ethel  instead  ?  She's  strong. 
She'd  have  got  well  in  no  time.  It's 
not  fair " 

"  My  dear  child,  my  dear,  dear  child, 
you  must  not  excite  yourself,"  implored 
Lady  Sarah,  abruptly  interrupting 
her. 

"  I  shall  speak,"  cried  Sarah  Anne, 
with  a  touch,  feeble  though  it  was, 
of  her  old  peevish  vehemence.  "  No- 
body's thought  of  but  Ethel.  If  you 
had  had  your  way,"  looking  hard  at 
Mr.  Godolphin,  "she'd  not  have  been 
allowed  to  come  near  me ;  no,  not  if  I 
had  died." 

She  altered  into  wimpering  tears. 
Lady  Sarah  whispered  to  him  to  leave 
the  room  :  it  would  not  do,  this  ex- 
citement. Thomas  wondered  why  he 
had  been  brought  to  it.  "  I  will  come 
and  see  you  again  when  you  are 
better,"  he  soothingly  whispered. 

"  No  you  won't,"  sobbed  Sarah 
Anne.  "  You  are  going  to  Scotland, 
and  I  shall  be  dead  when  you  come 
back.  I  don't  want  to  die.  Why  do 
they  frighten  me  with  their  prayers  ? 
Good-by,  Thomas  Godolphin." 

The  last  words  were  called  after 
him,  when  he  had  taken  his  leave  of 
her  and  was  quitting  the  room.  Lady 
Sarah  attended  him  to  the  threshold  : 
her  eyes  full,  her  hands  lifted.  "You 
may  see  that  there's  no  hope  of  her  !" 
she  wailed. 

Thomas  did  not  think  there  was 
the  slightest.  To  his  eye — though  it 
was  not  so  practiced  an  eye  in  sick- 
ness as  Mr.  Snow's,  or  even  as  that 


of  the  rector  of  All  Souls' — it  ap- 
peared that  in  a  very  few  days,  per- 
haps hours,  hope  for  Sarah  Anne 
Grame  would  be  over  forever. 

Ethel  waited  for  him  in  the  hall, 
and  was  leading  the  way  back  to  the 
drawing-room ;  but  he  told  her  that 
he  could  not  stay  longer,  and  opened 
the  front-door.  She  ran  past  him 
into  the  garden,  putting  her  hand  in 
his  as  he  came  out. 

"  I  wish  you  were  not  going  away," 
she  sadly  said,  her  spirits  that  night 
very  unequal,  causing  her  to  see 
things  with  a  gloomy  eye. 

"  I  wish  you  were  going  with  me  !" 
replied  Thomas  Godolphin.  "Do not 
weep,  Ethel.  I  shall  soon  be  back 
again." 

"Every  thing  seems  to  make  me 
weep  to-night.  You  may  not  be  back 
until, — until  the  worst  is  over.  Oh, 
if  she  might  but  be  saved  !" 

He  held  her  face  close  to  him, 
gazing  down  at  it  in  the  moonlight. 
And  then  he  took  from  it  his  farewell 
kiss.  "  God  bless  you,  my  darling, 
forever  and  forever  !" 

"  May  he  bless  you,  Thomas  !"  she 
answered  with  streaming  eyes  :  and, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  his  kiss 
was  returned.  Then  they  parted. 
He  watched  Ethel  in-doors,  and  went 
back  to  Prior's  Ash. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DEAD  ! 

"  Thomas,  my  son,  I  must  go  home. 
I  don't  want  to  die  away  from  Ashly- 
dyat !" 

A  dull  pain  shot  across  Thomas 
Godolphin's  heart  at  the  words.  Did 
he  think  of  the  old  superstitious  tradi- 
tion— that  evil  was  to  fall  upon  the 
Godolphins  when  their  chief  should 
die,  and  not  at  Ashlydyat  ?  At  Ash- 
lydyat  his  father  could  not  die ;  he 
had  put  that  out  of  his  power  when 
he  let  it  to  strangers  :  in  its  neighbor- 
hood, he  might. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


93 


"  The  better  plan,  sir,  will  be  for 
you  to  return  to  the  Polly,  as  you 
seem  to  wish  it,"  said  Thomas.  "  You 
will  soon  be  strong  enough  to  under- 
take the  journey." 

The  decaying  knight  was  sitting  on 
a  sofa  in  his  bed-room.  His  second 
fainting-fit  had  lasted  some  hours — if 
that,  indeed,  was  the  proper  name 
to  give  to  it — and  he  had  recovered,' 
only  to  be  more  and  more  weak.  He 
had  grown  pretty  well  after  the  first 
attack, — when  Margery  had  found  him 
in  his  chamber  on  the  floor,  the  day 
Lady  Godolphin  had  gone  to  pay  her 
visit  to  Selina.  The  next  time,  he 
was  on  the  lawn  before  the  house, 
talking  to  Charlotte  Pain,  when  he 
suddenly  fell  to  the  ground.  He  did 
not  recover  his  consciousness  until 
evening  ;  and,  nearly  the  first  wish  he 
expressed,  was  a  desire  to  see  his  son 
Thomas.  "  Telegraph  for  him,"  he 
said  to  Lady  Godolphin. 

"  But,  you  are  not  seriously  ill,  Sir 
George,"  she  answered. 

"  No,  but  I  should  like  him  here. 
Telegraph  to  him  to  start  by  first 
train." 

Which  was  what  Lady  Godolphin 
did,  accordingly,  sending  the  message 
that  angered  Miss  Godolphin.  But, 
in  this  case,  Lady  Godolphin  did  not 
deserve  so  much  blame  as  Janet  cast 
to  her  :  for  she  did  debate  the  point 
with  herself  whether  she  should  say 
Sir  George  was  ill  or  not.  Be- 
lieving herself  that  these  two  faint- 
ing-fits had  proceeded  from  want  of 
strength  only,  that  they  were  but  the 
effect  of  his  long  previous  illness,  and 
would  be  productive  of  no  bad  result, 
she  determined  not  to  speak  of  it. 
Hence  the  imperfect  message. 

Neither  did  Thomas  Godolphin  see 
much  cause  for  fear  when  he  arrived 
at  Broomhead.  Sir  George  did  not 
look  better  than  when  he  had  quitted 
Prior's  Ash,  but  neither  did  ha  look 
much  worse.  On  this,  the  second 
day,  he  had  been  well  enough  to  con- 
verse with  Thomas  upon  business 
affairs  :  and,  that  over,  he  suddenly 
broke  out  with  the  above  wish. 
Thomas  mentioned  it  when  he  joined 


Lady  Godolphin  afterwards.  It  did 
not  meet  her  approbation. 

"  You  should  have  opposed  it  en- 
tirely," said  she  to  him,  in  a  firm,  hard 
tone. 

"  But  why  so,  madam  ?"  asked 
Thomas.  "  If  my  father's  wish  is  to 
return  to  Prior's  Ash,  he  should  re- 
turn." 

"  Not  while  the  fever  lingers  there. 
Were  he  to  take  it — and  die — you 
would  never  forgive  yourself." 

Thomas  had  no  fear  of  the  fever  on 
his  own  score,  and  did  not  fear  it  for 
his  father.  He  intimated  as  much. 
"  It  is  not  the  fever  that  will  hurt  him, 
Lady  Godolphin." 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  that 
Lady  Sarah  Grame,  a  month  ago, 
might  have  said  she  did  not  fear  it 
for  Sarah  Anne.  And  now  Sarah 
Anne  is  dying  !" 

"  Or  dead,"  put  in  Charlotte  Pain, 
who  was  leaning  listlessly  against  the 
window-frame,  devoured  with  ennui. 

"Yes;  or  dead,"  assented  Lady 
Godolphin.  "  You  confess  you  did 
not  think  she  could  last  more  than  a 
day  or  two,  the  night  you  left." 

"  I  certainly  did  not,"  said  Thomas. 
"  She  looked  fearfully  ill  and  emaci- 
ated. But  that  has  nothing  to  do 
with  Sir  George." 

"  I  cannot  conceive  how  you  could 
have  been  so  imprudent  as  to  venture 
into  Sarah  Anne  Grame's  chamber  !" 
emphatically  cried  my  lady.  "  In- 
deed, that  you  went  to  the  house  at 
all  while  the  sickness  was  in  it,  one 
can  only  wonder  at." 

"  There  could  be  no  risk  in  my 
going  into  the  chamber,  Lady  Godol- 
phin. Nothing  is  the  matter  with  her 
now,  but  debility." 

"  You  don't  know,  Thomas  Godol- 
phin, when  risk  ends  or  when  it  be- 
gins," retorted  Lady  Godolphin.  "But 
that  so  many  hours  had  elapsed  before 
you  came  here,  and  you  were  in  all 
the  blow  of  the  railway  journey,  I 
should  not  have  thanked  you." 

Thomas  smiled.  But  he  wished  he 
had  said  nothing  of  his  visit  to  the 
sick-chamber,  for  he  was  one  of  those 
who   observe  strict  consideration  for 


94 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


the  feelings  and  prejudices  of  others. 
There  was  no  help  for  it  now.  He 
turned  to  Maria  Hastings. 

"  Shall  you  be  afraid  to  go  back  to 
Prior's  Ash  ?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Maria.  "  I 
should  not  mind  if  I  were  going  to- 
day, so  far  as  the  fever  is  concerned." 

"  That  is  well,"  he  said.  "  Because 
I  have  orders  to  convey  you  back 
thither  with  me." 

Charlotte  Pain  lifted  her  head  with 
a  start.  The  news  aroused  her. 
Maria,  on  the  contrary,  thought'  he 
was  speaking  in  jest. 

"  No,  indeed  I  am  not,"  said 
Thomas  Godolphin.  "  Mr.  Hastings 
made  a  request  to  me,  madam,  that  I 
would  take  charge  of  his  daughter 
when  I  returned,"  continued  he  to 
Lady  Godolphin.  "  He  wants  her 
back,  he  says." 

"  Mr.  Hastings  is  very  polite  !" 
ironically  replied  my  lady.  "  Maria 
will  go  back  when  I  choose  to  spare 
her." 

"  I  hope  you  will  allow  her  to  return 
with  me, — unless  you  shall  soon  be 
returning  yourself,"  said  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin. 

"  It  is  not  I  that  shall  be  returning 
to  Prior's  Ash  yet/'  said  my  lady. 
"  The  sickly  old  place  must  give  proof 
of  its  renewed  health  first.  You 
will  not  get  either  me  or  Sir  George 
there  on  this  side  Christmas." 

"  Then  I  think,  Lady  Godolphin, 
you  must  offer  no  objection  to  my 
taking  charge  of  Maria,"  said  Thomas, 
courteously,  but  firmly,  leaving  the 
discussion  of  Sir  George's  return  to 
another  opportunity.  "I  passed  my 
word  to  Mr.  Hastings." 

Charlotte  Pain,  all  animation  now, 
approached  Lady  Godolphin.  She 
was  thoroughly  sick  and  tired  of 
Broomhcad  ;  since  George  Godolphin's 
departure,  she  had  been  projecting 
how  she  could  get  away  from  it. 
Here  was  the  solution  of  her  diffi- 
culty. 

"  Dear  Lady  Godolphin,  you  must 
allow  me  to  depart  with  Mr.  Godol- 
phin,— whatever  you  may  do  by  Ma- 
ria Hastings,"  she  exclaimed.    "  I  said 


nothing  to  you, — for  I  really  did  not 
see  how  I  Avas  to  get  back,  knowing 
you  would  not  permit  me  to  ti'avel  so 
far  alone, — but  Mrs.  Verrall  is  very 
urgent  for  my  return.  And  now  that 
she  is  suffering  from  this  burn,  as 
Mr.  Godolphin  has  brought  us  news, 
it  is  the  more  incumbent  upon  me  to 
be  at  home." 

Which  was  a  nice  little  fib  of  Miss 
Charlotte's.  Her  sister  had  never 
once  hinted  that  she  wished  her  to  go 
home  :  but,  a  fib  or  two,  more  or 
less,  was  nothing  to  Charlotte. 

"  You  are  tired  of  Broomhead," 
said  Lady  Godolphin. 

Charlotte's  color  never  varied,  her 
eye  never  drooped,  as  she  protested 
that  she  should  not  tire  of  Broomhead 
were  she  its  inmate  for  a  twelvemonth, 
— that  it  was  quite  a  paradise  upon 
earth.  Maria  kept  her  head  bent 
while  Charlotte  said  it,  half  afraid 
lest  unscrupulous  Charlotte  should 
call  upon  her  to  bear  testimony  to  its 
truth.  But  that  very  morning  she 
had  protested  to  Maria  that  the  ennui 
of  the  place  was  killing  her. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Lady  Godol- 
phin, shrewdly.  "  Unless  I  am  wrong, 
Charlotte,  you  have  been  anxious  to 
quit  it.  What  was  it  that  Mr.  George 
hinted  at, — about  escorting  you  young 
ladies  back,  and  I  stopped  him  ere  it 
was  half  spoken  ?  Prior's  Ash  would 
talk  if  I  sent  you  home  under  his 
convoy." 

"  Mr.  Godolphin  is  not  George," 
rejoined  Charlotte. 

"  No.  He  is  not,"  replied  my  lady, 
significantly. 

"  Lady  Godolphin,  pardon  me  if  1 
urge  our  departure  upon  you,"  said 
Charlotte.  "  I  think  you  ought  to 
allow  us  to  take  advantage  of  this 
opportunity  to  return.  A  sick-house 
may  be  better  without  us.  We  are 
of  no  use  to  Sir  George  :  and  Margery 
said  .openly  the  other  night  that  we 
should  be  better  away.  In  his 
uncertain  state  it  is  hard  to  say  when 
you  may  be  able  to  get  away,  and  wo 
might  be  kept  here  all  the  winter, 
waiting  for  an  escort." 

Lady  Godolphin  made  no  reply  t<? 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


95 


this,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  reject  the 
reasoning,  if  her  manner  might  be  any 
criterion.  "  How  many  of  those 
miserable  Bonds  have  the  fever  taken 
off?"  she  asked  of  Thomas  Godol- 
phin. 

"Bond  himself,  and  the  son." 

"  Why,  the  very  two  who  could  be 
least  well  spared  !"  exclaimed  my 
lady,  as  if  she  were  reasoning  upon' 
the  most  worldly  matter.  "  But  the 
wife  and  young  ones  won't  be  much 
worse  off  without  them,  for  they  spent 
all  their  earnings  upon  themselves." 

"  Had  they  been  in  the  habit  of 
spending  less  upon  themselves,  they 
might  not  have  succumbed  to  the 
fever.     So  Mr.  Snow  says." 

"  What  does  Snow  think  of  the 
fever  ?     That' it  will  linger  long  ?" 

"  On  the  night  I  came  away,  he 
told  me  he  believed  it  was  at  last 
going.  I  hope  he  will  prove  right. 
You  may  be  at  Prior's  Ash  yet,  Lady 
Godolphin,  to  eat  your  Christmas 
dinner." 

The  subject  of  departure  was  settled 
amicably  ;  both  the  young  ladies  were 
to  return  to  Prior's  Ash  under  the 
charge  of  Mr.  Godolphin.  There  are 
some  men,  single  men  though  they  be, 
and  not  men  in  years,  whom  society 
is  content  to  recognize  as  entirely  fit 
escorts.  Thomas  Godolphin  was  one. 
Had  my  lady  despatched  the  young 
ladies  home  under  the  wing  of  Mr. 
George,  she  might  never  have  heard 
the  last  of  it  from  Prior's  Ash  :  but 
the  most  inveterate  scandal-monger  in 
it,  would  not  have  questioned  the 
thorough  trustworthiness  of  his  elder 
brother.  My  lady  was  also  brought 
to  give  her  consent  to  her  own  de- 
parture for  it  by  Christmas,  provided 
Mr.  Snow  would  assure  her  that  the 
place  was  "  safe." 

Thomas  Godolphin  spoke  to  his 
father  of  his  marriage  arrangements. 
He  had  received  a  letter  from  Janet, 
written  the  morning  after  his  depart- 
ure, in  which  she  agreed  to  the  pro- 
posal that  Ethel  should  be  her  tempo- 
rary guest.  This  removed  all  barrier 
to  the  immediate  union. 

"  But,    Thomas,    if     Sarah     Anne 


should  die  ?"  debated  Sir  George. 
The  conversation  was  taking  place  on 
the  day  prior  to  that  fixed  for  their 
quitting  Broomhead,  where  Thomaa 
had  now  been  four  days. 

"  In  that  case,  I  suppose  it  would 
have  to  be  postponed,"  he  replied. 
"  But,  I  argue  better  news.  That  she 
is  not  dead  yet,  is  certain,  or  else  they 
would  have  written  to  me.  And  iu 
these  cases,  if  a  patient  can  struggle 
on  through  the  first  extreme  debility, 
recovery  may  supervene." 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Ethel  ?" 

"  No.  I  have  written  to  her  twice. 
But  in  each  letter  I  told  her  I  should 
soon  be  home :  therefore  she  most 
likely  would  not  write,  thinking  it 
might  miss  me.  Had  the  worst  hap- 
pened, they  would  have  written  at  all 
hazards." 

"  Then  you  marry  directly,  if  Sarah 
Anne  lives  V 

"  Directly.  In  January  at  the 
latest." 

"  God  bless  you  both  !"  cried  the 
old  knight.  "  She'll  be  a  wife  in  a 
thousand,  Thomas." 

Thomas  thought  she  would.  He 
did  not  say  it. 

"  It's  the  best  plan, — it's  the  best 
plan,"  continued  Sir  George,  in  .a 
dreamy  tone,  gazing  into  the  fire. 
"  No  use  to  turn  the  girls  out  of  their 
home.  It  will  not  be  for  long, — not 
for  long.  Thomas," — turning  his  hag- 
gard but  still  firie  blue  eye  upon  his 
son, — "  I  wish  I  had  never  left  Ash- 
lydyat !" 

Thomas  was  silent.  None  had  more 
bitterly  regretted  the  departure  from 
it  than  he." 

"  I  wish  I  could  go  back  to  it  to 
die  !" 

"  My  dear  father,  I  hope  that  you 
will  yet  live  many  years  to  bless  us. 
If  you  can  get  through  this  winter, — 
and  I  see  no  reason  whatever  why 
you  should  not,  with  care, —  you  may 
regain  your  strength  and  be  as  well 
again  as  any  of  us." 

Sir  George  shook  his  head.  "  It 
will  not  be,  Thomas.  I  shall  not  long 
keep  you  out  of  Ashlydyat,  Mind  !" 
he  added,  turning  upon  Thomas  with 


96 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


surprising  energy,  "  I  will  go  back 
before  Christmas  to  Prior's  Ash.  The 
last  Christmas  that  I  shall  see  shall  be 
spent  with  my  children." 

"Yes,  indeed  I  think  you  should 
come  back,"  warmly  acquiesced 
Thomas. 

"  Therefore,  if  you  find,  when 
Christmas  is  close  upon  us,  that  I  am 
not  amongst  you, — that  you  hear  no 
tidings  of  my  coming  amongst  you, — 
you  come  off  here  at  once  and  fetch 
me.  Do  you  hear,  Thomas  ?  I  en- 
join it  upon  you  now  with  a  father's 
authority  :  do  not  forget  it,  or  dis- 
obey it.  My  lady  fears  the  fever,  and 
would  keep  me  ;  but  I  must  be  at 
Prior's  Ash." 

"  I  will  certainly  obey  you,  my 
father,"  replied  Thomas  Godolphin. 

Telegraphic  despatches  seemed  to 
be  the  order  of  the  day  with  Thomas 
Godolphin.  They  were  all  sitting  to- 
gether that  evening,  Sir  George  hav- 
ing come  down-stairs,  when  a  servant 
called  Thomas  out  of  the  room.  A 
telegraphic  message  had  arrived  for 
him  at  the  station,  and  a  man  had 
brought  it  over.  A  conviction  of  what 
it  contained  flashed  over  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin's  heart  as  he  opened  it, — the 
death  of  Sarah  Anne  Grame. 

From  Lady  Sarah  it  proved  to  be. 
Not  a  much  more  satisfactory  message 
than  had  been  Lady  Godolphin's  ;  for 
if  hers  had  been  unexplanatory,  this 
was  incoherent : 

"  The  breath  has  just  gone  out  of 
my  dear  child's  body.  I  will  write 
by  next  post.  She  died  at  four  o'clock. 
How  shall  we  all  bear  it  ?" 

Thomas  returned  to  the  room,  his 
mind  full.  In  the  midst  of  his  sorrow 
and  regret  for  Sarah  Anne,  his  com- 
passion for  Lady  Sarah, — and  he  did 
feel  all  that  with  true  sympathy, — in- 
truded the  thoughts  of  his  own  mar- 
riage :  it  must  be  postponed  now. 

"  What  did  Andrew  want  with  you  ?" 
asked  Sir  George,  when  he  entered. 

"A  telegraphic  message  had  come 
for  me  from  Prior's  Ash." 

"A  business  message  ?" 

"No,  sir.     It  is  from  Lady  Sarah." 

By  the  tone   of  his  voice,  by  the 


falling  of  his  countenance,  they  could 
read  instinctively  what  had  occurred. 
But  they  kept  silence, — all,— waiting 
for  him  to  speak  further. 

"  Poor  Sarah  Anne  is  gone.  She 
died  at  four  o'clock." 

"  This  will  make  a  delay  in  your 
plans,  Thomas,"  observed  Sir  George, 
after  some  minutes  had  been  given  to 
expressions  of  regret. 

"It  will,  sir." 

The  knight  leaned  over  to  his  son, 
and  spoke  in  a  whisper,  meant  for  his 
ear  alone  :  "  I  shall  not  be  very  long 
after  her.  I  feel  that  I  shall  not. 
You  may  yet  take  Ethel  home  at  once 
to  Ashlydyat." 

Very  early  indeed  did  they  start  in 
the  morning,  long  before  daybreak. 
Prior's  Ash  they  would  reach,  all 
things  being  well,  at  nine  at  night. 
Margeiy  was  sent  to  attend  them, — a 
very  dragon  of  a  guardian,  as  partic- 
ular as  Miss  Godolphin  herself, — had 
a  guardian  been  necessary. 

Charlotte  Pain  did  not  conceal  her 
delight  at  her  escape,  in  spite  of  the 
presence  of  Margery,  who  might  tell 
tales.  "  Only  think  what  it  was  for 
me,  Mr.  Godolphin  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  You  found  it  dull  ?"  replied 
Thomas. 

"  Dull !  Had  I  been  condemned  to 
remain  in  it  another  week,  I  should 
have  been  fit  to  hang  myself,"  was 
Charlotte's  answer. 

"  Why  did  you  come  to  it,  Miss 
Pain  ?"  jerked  out  Margery,  Resent- 
fully, who  was  accustomed  to  say 
what  she  thought,  no  matter  to  whom. 

"  That  is  my  own  business,  and  not 
yours,  Margery,  woman,"  reproved 
Charlotte. 

A  somewhat  weary  day, — a  long 
one,  at  any  rate, — and  their  train 
steamed  into  the  station  at  Prior's 
Ash.  It  was  striking  nine.  Mr. 
Hastings  was  waiting  for  Maria,  and 
Mrs.  Yerrall's  carriage  for  Charlotte 
Pain.  A  few  minutes  were  spent  in 
collecting  the  luggage. 

"  Shall  I  give  you  a  seat  as  far  as 
the  bank,  Mr.  Godolphin  ?"  inquired 
Charlotte,  who  must  pass  it  on  hei 
way  to  Ashlvdvat. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      AS  II  L  Y  D  Y  AT. 


97 


"  Thank  you,  no.  I  shall  just  go 
up  for  a  minute's  call  upon  Lady  Sarah 
Gramc." 

Mr.  Hastings,  who  had  been  put- 
ting Maria  into  a  fly,  heard  the  words. 
lie  turned  hastily,  caught  Thomas 
Godolphin's  hand,  and  drew  him  aside. 

"Are  you  aware  of  what  has  oc- 
curred ?" 

"Alas,  yes  !"  replied  Thomas.  "Lady 
Sarah  telegraphed  to  me  last  night." 

The  rector  pressed  his  hand,  and 
returned  to  his  daughter.  Thomas 
Godolphin  struck  off  to  a  by-path,  a 
short  cross-cut  from  the  station,  which 
would  take  him  to  Grame  House. 

Six  days  ago  exactly,  it  was,  since 
he  was  there  before.  The  house 
looked  precisely  as  it  had  looked  then, 
all  in  darkness,  save  for  the  dull  light 
that  burned  from  Sarah  Anne's  cham- 
ber. It  burnt  there  still.  Then  it 
was  lighting  the  living  :  now . 

Thomas  Godolphin  rang  gently  at 
the  bell.  Does  anybody  like  to  go 
with  a  fierce  peal  to  a  house  where 
death  is  an  inmate  ?  Elizabeth,  as 
was  usual,  opened  the  door,  and  burst 
into  tears  when  she  saw  who  it  was. 
"  I  said  it  would  bring  you  back,  sir  !" 
she  exclaimed. 

"  Does  Lady  Sarah  bear  it  pretty 
well  ?"  he  asked,  as  she  showed  him 
iuto  the  drawing-room. 

"  No,  sir :  not  over  well,"  sobbed 
the  girl.  "  I'll  tell  my  lady  that  you 
are  here." 

He  stood  over  the  fire,  as  he  had 
done  the  other  night :  it  was  low  now, 
— like  it  had  been  then.  Strangely 
atill  seemed  the  house  :  he  could  have 
almost  told  that  one  was  lying  dead  in 
it.  He  listened, — waiting  for  the  step 
of  Ethel,  hoping  she  would  be  the  first 
to  come  to  him. 

Elizabeth  returned.  "  My  lady  says 
would  you  be  so  good  as  walk  up  to 
her,  sir  ?" 

Thomas  Godolphin  followed  her  up- 
stairs. She  made  for  the  room  to 
which  he  had  been  taken  the  former 
niaht, — Sarah  Anne's  chamber.  In 
6 


point  of  fact,  the  chamber  of  Lady 
Sarah  ;  but  it  had  been  given  up  to 
Sarah  Anne  for  her  illness.  Elizabeth, 
with  soft,  stealthy  tread,  crossed  the 
corridor  to  the  door,  and  opened  it. 

Was  she  going  to  show  him  into  the 
presence  of  the  dead  ?  He  thought 
she  must  have  mistaken  Lad}*  Sarah's 
orders,  and  he  hesitated  on  the  thic.-h- 
hold. 

"Where  is  Miss  Ethel  ?"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"  Who,  sir  ?" 

"  Miss  Ethel.     Is  she  well  ?" 

The  girl  stared  at  him,  flung  the 
door  full  open,  and  gave  a  great  cry 
as  she  flew  down  the  staircase. 

He  looked  after  her  in  amazement. 
Had  she  gone  mad  ?  Then  he  turned 
and  walked  into  the  room  with  a  hesi- 
tating step. 

Lady  Sarah  was  coming  forward  to 
meet  him.  She  was  convulsed  with 
grief.  He  took  both  her  hands  in  his 
with  a  soothing  gesture,  essaying  a 
word  of  comfort, — not  of  inquiry,  why 
she  should  have  brought  him  to  this 
room.  He  glanced  to  the  bed,  ex- 
pecting to  see  the  corpse  upon  it ;  but 
the  bed  was  empty.  And  at  that  mo- 
ment his  eyes  caught  another  sight. 

Seated  by  the  fire  in  an  invalid- 
chair,  surrounded  with  pillows,  cov- 
ered with  shawls,  with  a  wan,  attenu- 
ated face,  and  eyes  that  seemed  to  have 
a  glaze  over  them,  was, — who  ? 

Sarah  Anne  ?  It  certainly  was 
Sarah  Anne,  and  in  life  yet.  For  she 
feebly  held  out  her  hand  in  welcome, 
and  the  tears  suddenly  gushed  from 
her  eyes.  "  I  am  getting  better,  Mr. 
Godolphin." 

Thomas  Godolphin, — Thomas  Go- 
dolphin,— how  shall  I  write  it  ?  For 
one  blessed  minute  he  was  utterly 
blind  to  what  it  could  all  mean :  his 
whole  mind  was  a  chaos  of  astonished 
perplexity.  And  then,  as  the  dread- 
ful truth  burst  upon  him,  he  staggered 
against  the  wall,  with  a  wailing  cry 
of  agony. 

It  was  Ethel  who  had  died. 


98 


THE       SHADOW       OF       ASHLYDYAT. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

UNAVAILING   KEGRETS. 

Yes.     It  was  Ethel  who  had  died. 

Thomas  Godolphin  leaned  against 
the  wall  in  his  shock  of  agony.  It 
was  one  of  those  moments  that  can 
fall  only  once  in  a  lifetime  :  in  many 
lives  never :  when  the  greatest  limit 
of  earthly  misery  bursts  upon  the 
startled  spirit,  shattering  it  for  all 
time.  Were  Thomas  Godolphin  to 
live  for  a  hundred  years,  he  never 
could  know  another  moment  like  this, 
— the  power  so  to  feel  would  have  left 
him. 

It  had  not  left  him  yet.  Nay  :  it 
had  scarcely  come  to  him  in  its  full 
realization.  At  present  he  was  half- 
stunned.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the 
first  impression  upon  his  mind  was 
that  he  was  so  much  nearer  to  the 
next  world.  How  am  I  to  define  this 
"nearer?"  It  was  not  that  he  was 
nearer  to  it  by  time,  or  in  goodness, 
— nothing  of  that.  She  had  passed 
within  its  portals  ;  and  the  great  gulf, 
which  divides  time  from  eternity, 
seemed  to  be  but  a  span  now  to 
Thomas  Godolphin  :  it  was  as  if  he, 
in  spirit,  had  followed  her  in.  From 
being  a  place  far,  far  off, — vague,  in- 
definite, indistinct, — it  had  been  sud- 
denly brought  to  him  close  and  pal- 
pable, or  he  to  it.  Had  Thomas 
Godolphin  been  an  atheist,  denying  a 
hereafter, — Heaven  in  its  compassion 
have  mercy  upon  all  such  ! — that  one 
moment  of  suffering  would  have  re- 
called  him  to  a  sense  of  his  mistake. 
It  was  as  if  he  looked  aloft  with  the 
ryes  of  inspiration  and  saw  the  truth  : 
it.  was  as  a  brief,  passing  moment  of 
revelation  from  God.  She,  with  her 
loving  spirit,  her  gentle  heart,  her 
simple  trust  in  God,  had  been  taken 
from  this  world  to  enter  upon  abetter. 
She  was  as  surely  living  in  it, — had 
entered  upon  its  mysteries,  its  joys, 
its  rest,  as  that  he  was  living  here  : 
she,  he  believed,  was  as  surely  re- 
garding him  now  and  his  great  sorrow, 
as  that  he  was  left  alone  to  battle  with 
it.     From  henceforth,  Thomas  Godol- 


phin possessed  a  lively,  ever-present 
link  with  that  world  ;  and  knew  that 
its  gates  would,  in  God's  good  time, 
be  opened  for  him. 

These  feelings,  impressions,  facts — 
you  may  designate  them  as  you  please 
— took  up  their  place  in  his  mind  all 
in  that  first  instant,  and  seated  them- 
selves there  forever.  Not  yet  very 
consciously.  To  his  stunned  senses, 
in  his  weight  of  bitter  grief,  nothing 
could  be  to  him  very  clear :  ideas 
passed  through  his  brain  quickly,  con- 
fusedly,— like  unto  the  changing  scenes 
in  a  phantasmagoria.  He  looked  round 
as  one  bewildered.  The  bed  smoothed 
ready  for  occupancy,  on  which  on  en- 
tering he  had  expected  to  see  the  dead, 
but  not  her,  was  between  him  and  the 
door.  Sarah  Anne  Grame  in  her  in- 
valid-chair by  the  fire,  a  table  at  her 
right  hand  covered  with  adjuncts  of  the 
sick-room, — a  medicine-bottle  with  its 
accompanying  wine-glass  and  table- 
spoon, jelly  and  other  delicacies  to 
tempt  a  faded  appetite, — Sarah  Anne 
sat  there  and  gazed  at  him  with  her 
dark,  hollow  eyes,  from  which  the  tears 
dropped  slowly  on  her  cadaverous 
cheeks.  Lady  Sarah  stood  before 
him,  sobs  choking  her  voice,  wringing 
her  hands.  Ay  :  both  were  weeping-. 
But  he, — it  is  not  in  the  presence  of 
others  that  man  gives  way  to  grief; 
neither  will  tears  come  to  him  in  the 
first  leaden  weight  of  anguish. 

Thomas  Godolphin  listened  mechan- 
ically, as  one  who  cannot  do  otherwise, 
to  the  explanations  of  Lady  Sarah. 
"  Why  did  you  not  prepare  me  ? — why 
did  you  let  it  come  upon  me  with  this 
startling  shock  ?"  was  his  first  remon- 
strance. 

"I  did  prepare  you,"  sobbed  Lady 
Sarah.  "  I  telegraphed  to  you  last 
night  as  soon  as  it  had  happened.  I 
wrote  the  message  with  my  own  hand 
and  sent  it  off  to  the  office  before  I 
turned  my  attention  to  any  other  thing. " 

"  I  received  the  message.  But  you 
did  not  say, — I  thought  it  was, — " 
Thomas  Godolphin  turned  his  glance 
on  Sarah  Anne.  He  remembered  her 
state  in  the  midst  of  his  own  anguish, 
and  would  not  alarm  her.     "  You  did 


THE      SHADOW      OP     ASHLYDYAT 


99 


not  mention  Ethel's  name,"  he  con- 
tinued, to  Lady  Sarah.  "How could 
I  suppose  you  alluded  to  her,  or  that 
she  was  ill  ?" 

Sarah  Anne  divined  his  motive  of 
hesitation.  She  was  uncommonly  keen 
in  penetration, — sharp,  as  the  world 
says, — and  she  had  noted  his  words 
on  entering,  when  he  began  to  soothe 
Lady  Sarah  for  the  loss  of  a  child ; 
she  had  noted  his  startled  recoil  when 
his  eyes  fell  on  her.  She  spoke  up 
with  a  touch  of  her  old  querukmsness, 
the  tears  arrested  on  her  face,  and  her 
eyes  glisteniug. 

"You  thought  it  was  I  who  had 
died  1  Yes  you  did,  Mr.  Godolphin, 
and  you  need  not  attempt  to  deny  it. 
You  would  not  have  cared  so  that  it 
was  not  Ethel." 

Thomas  Godolphin  had  no  intention 
of  contradicting  her.  He  turned  from 
Sarah  Anne  in  silence  to  look  inquir- 
ingly and  reproachfully  at  her  mother. 

"Mr.  Godolphin,  I  could  not  pre- 
pare you  better  than  I  did,"  said  Lady 
Sarah.  "When  I  wrote  the  letter  to 
you,  telling  of  her  illness — " 

"  What  letter  ?" interrupted  Thomas 
Godolphin.     "I  received  no  letter." 

"  But  you  must  have  received  it," 
returned  Lady  Sarah,  in  her  quick 
and  cross  manner.  Not  cross  with 
Thomas  Godolphin,  but  from  a  rising 
doubt  whether  the  letter  had  miscar- 
ried. "  I  wrote  it,  and  I  know  that  it 
was  safely  posted.  You  ought  to 
have  had  it  by  last  evening's  delivery, 
before  you  could  get  the  telegraphic 
dispatch." 

"  I  never  had  it,"  said  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin. "When  I  waited  in  your 
drawing-room  now,  I  was  listening 
for  Ethel's  footsteps  to  come  to  me." 

Thomas  Godolphin  knew,  later,  that 
the  letter  had  arrived  duly  and  safely 
at  Broomhead  at  the  time  mentioned 
by  Lady  Sarah.  Sir  George  Godol- 
phin either  did  not  open  the  box  that 
night,  or  if  he  opened  it  he  overlooked 
the  letter  for  his  son.  Charlotte 
Pain's  complaint,  that  the  box  ought 
not  to  be  left  to  the  charge  of  Sir 
George,  bore  reason  in  it.  On  the 
morning  of  his  son's  departure  with 


the  young  ladies,  Sir  George  had  found 
the  letter,  and  at  once  dispatched  it 
back  to  Prior's  Ash.  It  was  on  its 
road  then  at  this  same  hour  when  he 
was  talking  with  Lady  Surah.  But 
the  shock  had  come. 

He  took  a  seat  by  the  table,  and 
covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand  as 
Lady  Sarah  gave  him  a  detailed  ac- 
count of  the  illness  and  death.  Not, 
all  the  account,  that  she  or  anybody 
else  could  give,  would  take  one  iota 
from  the  dreadful  fact  staring  him  in 
the  face.  She  was  gone  !  Gone  away 
forever  from  this  world :  he  could 
never  meet  the  glance  of  her  eye 
again,  or  hear  her  voice  in  response 
to  his  own.  Ah,  my  readers,  there 
are  griefs  that  tell !  riving  the  heart 
as  an  earthquake  will  rive  the  earth  ; 
and  all  that  can  be  done  is,  to  sit  down 
under  them  and  ask  of  Heaven  strength 
to  bear, — to  bear  as  we  best  may  until 
time  shall  shed  a  few  drops  of  healing 
balm  from  its  wings. 

On  the  last  night  that  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin had  seen  her,  Ethel's  brow  and 
eyes  were  heavy.  She  had  wept  much 
in  the  day,  and  supposed  the  pain  in 
her  head  to  arise  from  that  circum- 
stance ;  she  had  given  this  explana- 
tion to  Thomas  Godolphin.  Neither 
she  nor  he  had  had  a  thought  that  it 
could  come  from  any  other  source. 
More  than  a  month  since  Sarah  Anne 
was  taken  with  the  fever,  fears  of  it 
for  Ethel  had  died  out.  And  yet  those 
dull  eyes,  that  hot  head,  that  heavy 
weight  of  pain,  were  only  the  symp- 
toms of  the  sickness  coming  on  !  A 
night  of  tossing  and  turning,  snatches 
of  disturbed  sleep,  of  terrifying  dreams, 
and  Ethel  awoke  to  the  conviction  that 
the  fever  was  upon  her.  About  the 
time  that  she  generally  rose,  she  rang 
her  bell  for  Elizabeth. 

"I  do  not  feel  well,"  she  said.  "As 
soon  as  mamma  is  up,  will  you  ask 
her  to  come  to  me.  Do  not  disturb 
her  before." 

Elizabeth  obeyed  her  orders.  But 
Lady  Sarah,  tired  and  wearied  out 
with  her  attendance  upon  Sarah  Anne, 
with  whom  she  had  been  up  half  the 
night,  did  not  rise  till  between  nino 


100 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


and  ten.     The  maid  went  to  her  then 
and  delivered  the  message. 

"  In  bed  still !  Miss  Ethel  in  bed 
still  1"  exclaimed  Lady  Sarah.  She 
spoke  in  much  anger ;  for  Ethel  was 
wont  to  be  up  betimes  and  in  attend- 
ance upon  Sarah  Anne.  It  was  re- 
quired of  her  so  to  be. 

Flinging  on  a  dressing-gown,  Lady 
Sarah  proceeded  to  Ethel's  room  ;  and 
there  she  broke  into  a  storm  of  re- 
proach and  anger, — never  waiting  to 
ascertain  what  might  be  the  matter 
with  Ethel,  any  thing  or  nothing. 
"  Ten  o'clock,  and  that  poor  child  to 
have  lain  till  now  with  nobody  to  go 
near  her  but  a  servant  I"  she  reiterated. 
"You  have  no  feeling,  Ethel." 

Ethel  drew  the  clothes  from  her 
flushed  face,  and  turned  her  glistening 
eyes,  dull  last  night,  shining  with  the 
fever  now,  upon  her  mother.  "  Oh, 
mamma,  I  am  ill,  indeed  I  am  !  I  can 
hardly  lift  my  head  for  the  pain.  Feel 
how  it  is  burning  1  I  did  not  think  I 
ought  to  get  up." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?" 
sharply  inquired  Lady  Sarah. 

"  I  cannot  quite  tell,"  answered 
Ethel.  "  I  only  know  that  I  feel  ill 
all  over.  I  feel,  mamma,  as  if  I  could 
not  get  up." 

"  Very  well !  There's  that  dear, 
suffering  angel  lying  alone,  and  you 
can  think  of  yourself  before  her  !  If 
you  choose  to  stop  in  bed,  you  must. 
But  you  will  reproach  yourself  for 
vour  selfishness  when  she  is  gone. 
Another  four-and-twenty  hours,  and 
she  may  be  no  longer  with  us.  Do 
as  you  think  proper." 

Ethel  burst  into  tears,  and  caught 
hold  of  her  mother's  robe  as  she  was 
turning  away.  "  Mamma,  do  not  be 
angry  with  me  !  I  trust  I  am  not 
selfish.  Mamma," — and  her  voice 
sank  to  a  whisper, — "I  have  been 
thinking  that  it  may  be  the  fever." 

"The  fever!"  reproachfully  echoed 
Lady  Sarah.  "  Heaven  help  you  for 
a  selfish  and  a  fanciful  child  !  Hid  I 
not  send  you  to  bed  with  the  headache 
last  night,  and  what  is  it  but  the  re- 
mains of  that  headache  that  you  feel 
this  morning  ?     I  can  see  what  it  is  ; 


you  have  been  fretting  about  the  de- 
parture of  Thomas  Godolphin  !  Get 
up  out  of  .that  hot  bed  and  dress  your- 
self, and  come  in  and  attend  on  your 
sister.  You  know  she  can't  bear  to  be 
waited  on  by  anybody  but  you.  Get 
up,  I  say,  Ethel." 

Will  Lady  Sarah  Grame  remember 
that  episode  until  death  shall  take  her  ? 
I  should,  in  her  place.  She  suppressed 
all  mention  of  it  to  Thomas  Godolphin. 
"  The  dear  child  told  me  she  did  not 
feel  well ;  but  I  only  thought  she  had 
a  headache,  and  that  she  would  per- 
haps feel  better  up  ;"  were  the  words 
in  which  she  related  it  to  him.  What 
sort  of  a  vulture  was  gnawing  at  her 
heart,  as  she  spoke  them  ?  It  was 
true  that,  in  her  blind  selfishness  for 
that  one,  undeserving  child,  she  had 
lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  illness  could 
come  to  Ethel ;  she  had  not  allowed 
herself  to  receive  the  probability  ;  she 
who  had  accused  of  selfishness  that  de- 
voted, generous  girl,  who  was  ready 
at  all  hours  to  put  her  hands  under 
her  sister's  feet ;  who  would  have  sac- 
rificed her  own  life  to  save  Sarah 
Anne's. 

Ethel  got  up.  Got  up  as  she  best 
could, — her  limbs  aching,  her  head 
burning.  She  went  into  Sarah  Anne's 
room  and  did  for  her  what  she  was 
able,  gently,  lovingly,  anxiously,  as  of 
yore.  Ah,  child  !  let  those  who  are 
left  be  thankful  that  it  was  so  !  it  is 
well  to  be  stricken  down  in  the  active 
path  of  duty,  working  till  we  can  work 
no  moi"e. 

She  did  so.  She  stayed  where  she 
was  till  the  day  was  half  gone, — bear- 
ing up,  it  was  hard  to  say  how.  She 
could  not  touch  breakfast :  she  could 
not  touch  any  thing.  None  saw  how 
ill  she  was.  Lady  Sarah  was  wilfully 
blind ;  Sarah  Anne  had  eyes  and 
thoughts  for  herself  alone.  "  What 
are  you  shivering  for  ?"  Sarah  Anne 
once  fretfully  asked  her.  "  I  feel  cold, 
dear,"  was  Ethel's  unselfish  answer: 
not  a  word  said  she  further  of  her  ill- 
ness. In  the  early  part  of  the  after- 
noon, Lady  Sarah  was  away  from  the 
room  for  some  time  on  domestic  affairs ; 
and  when  she  returned  from  it  Mr. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


101 


Snow  was  with  her,  who  had  been 
prevented  from  calling  earlier  in  the 
day.  They  found  Sarah  Anne  dropped 
into  a  doze,  and  Ethel  stretched  on  the 
floor  before  the  fire,  moaning.  But 
the  moans  ceased  as  they  entered. 

Mr.  Snow,  regardless  of  the  waking 
invalid,  strode  up  to  Ethel,  and  turned 
her  face  to  the  light.  "  How  long  has 
she  been  like  this?"  he  cried  out,  his 
voice  shrill  with  emotion.  "  Child  ! 
child  !  why  did  they  not  send  for 
me  ?" 

Alas  !  poor  Ethel  was  even  then  too 
ill  to  reply.  Mr.  Snow  carried  her  to 
her  room  with  his  own  arms,  and  the 
servants  undressed  her  and  laid  her  in 
the  bed  from  which  she  was  never  more 
to  rise.  The  fever  took  violent  hold 
of  her  ;  but  not  worse  than  it  had  done 
of  Sarah  Anne,  scarcely  as  bad,  and 
danger  for  Ethel  was  not  looked  for. 
Had  Sarah  Ann  not  got  over  a  similar 
crisis,  thej''  would  have  feared  for 
Ethel, — so  given  are  we  to  judge  by 
collateral  circumstances.  It  was  only 
on  the  third  or  fourth  day  that  highly 
dangerous  symptoms  supervened,  and 
then  Lady  Sarah  wrote  to  Thomas 
Godolphin  the  letter  which  had  not 
reached  him.  There  was  this  much  of 
negative  consolation  to  be  derived 
from  the  non-receipt ;  that,  had  it  been 
delivered  to  him  on  the  instant  of  its 
arrival,  he  could  not  have  been  in  time 
to  see  her. 

"  You  ought  to  have  written  to  me 
as  soon  as  she  was  taken  ill,"  he  ob- 
served to  Lady  Sarah. 

"  I  would  have  done  it  had  I  ap- 
prehended danger,"  she  repentantly 
answered.  "  But  I  never  did.  Mr. 
Snow  never  did.  I  thought  how  pleas- 
ant it  would  be  to  get  her  safe  through 
the  danger  and  the  illness  before  you 
should  know  of  it." 

"  Did  she  not  wish  me  written  to  ?" 

The  question  was  put  firmly,  ab- 
ruptly, after  the  manner  of  one  who 
will  not  be  cheated  of  his  answer. 
Lady  Sarah  dared  not  evade  it.  How 
could  she  equivocate,  with  her  child 
lying  dead  above  her  head  ? 

"It  is  true.  She  did  wish  it.  It 
was  on  the  first  day  of  her  illness  that 


she  spoke.  '  Write,  and  tell  Thomas 
Godolphin.'  She  never  said  it  but 
that  once." 

"And  you  did  not  ?"  he  uttered,  his 
voice  hoarse  with  pain. 

"  Do  not  reproach  me  !  do  not  re- 
proach me  !"  cried  Lady  Sarah,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  in  supplication,  while 
the  tears  fell  in  showers  from  her  eyes. 
"  I  did  it  for  the  best.  I  never  sup- 
posed there  was  danger :  I  thought 
what  a  pity  it  was  to  bring  you  back 
all  that  long  journey,  putting  you  to 
so  much  unnecessary  trouble  and  ex- 
pense." 

Trouble  !  expense  !  in  a  case  like 
that !  She  could  speak  of  expense 
to  Thomas  Godolphin  !  But  he  re- 
membered how  she  had  had  to  battle 
both  with  expense  aud  trouble  her 
whole  life  long, — that  for  her  they 
must  wear  a  formidable  aspect ;  and 
he  remained  silent. 

"  I  wish,  now,  I  had  written,"  she 
resumed,  in  the  midst  of  her  choking 
sobs.  "As  soon  as  Mr.  Snow  said 
there  was  danger,  I  wished  it.  But" 
— as  if  she  would  seek  to  excuse  her- 
self— "what  with  the  two  upon  my 
hands, — she  up-stairs,  Sarah  Anne 
here, — I  had  not  a  moment  for  proper 
reflection." 

"  Did  you  tell  her  you  had  not  writ- 
ten ?"  he  asked.  "  Or  did  you  let  her 
lie  waiting  for  me,  hour  after  hour, 
day  after  day,  blaming  me  for  my 
careless  neglect  ?" 

"  She  never  blamed  any  one  :  you 
know  she  did  not,"  wailed  Lady  Sarah; 
"  and  I  believe  she  was  too  ill  to  think 
even  of  you.  She  was  only  sensible 
at  times.  Oh,  I  say,  do  not  reproach 
me,  Mr.  Godolphin  !  1  would  give 
my  own  life  to  bring  her  back  !  I 
never  knew  her  worth  till  she  was 
gone.  I  never  loved  her  as  I  love  her 
now." 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  Lady 
Sarah  Grame  was  reproaching  herself 
far  more  bitterly  than  any  reproach 
could  tell  upon  her  from  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin. An  accusing  conscience  is 
the  worst  of  all  evils.  She  sat  there, 
her  head  bent,  swaying  herself  back- 
wards  and    forwards    on  her   chair, 


102 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


moaning  and  crying.  It  was  not  a 
time,  Thomas  Godolphin  felt,  to  say 
a  word  of  her  past  heartless  conduct 
in  forcing  Ethel  to  breathe  the  infec- 
tion of  Sarah  Anne's  sick-room.  And 
all  that  he  could  say,  all  the  reproaches, 
all  the  remorse  and  repentance,  would 
not  bring  Ethel  back  to  life. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  her  ?" 
whispered  Lady  Sarah,  as  he  rose  to 
leave. 

"Yes." 

She  lighted  a  chamber-candle,  and 
preceded  him  up-stairs.  Ethel  had 
died  in  her  own  room.  At  the  door, 
Thomas  Godolphin  took  the  candle 
from  Lady  Sarah. 

"  I  must  go  in  alone." 

He  passed  on  into  the  chamber,  and 
closed  the  door.  On  the  bed,  laid 
out  in  her  white  night-dress,  lay  what 
remained  of  Ethel  Grame.  Pale,  still, 
pure,  her  face  was  wonderfully  like 
what  it  had  been  in  life,  and  a  calm 

smile  rested  upon  it. But  Thomas 

Godolphin  wished  to  be  alone  ! 

Lady  Sarah  stood  outside,  leaning 
against  the  opposite  Avail,  and  weep- 
ing silently,  the  glimmer  from  the  hall- 
lamp  below  faintly  lighting  the  corri- 
dor. Once  she  fancied  that  a  sound, 
as  of  choking  sobs,  struck  upon  her 
cars,  and  she  caught  up  a  small,  black 
shawl  that  she  wore,  for  grief  had 
made  her  chilly,  and  flung  it  over  her 
head,  and  wept  the  faster. 

He  came  out  by-and-by,  calm  and 
quiet  as  he  ever  was.  He  did  not 
perceive  Lady  Sarah  standing  there 
in  the  shade,  and  went  straight  down, 
carrying  the  wax-light.  Lady  Sarah 
caught  him  up  at  the  door  of  Sarali 
Anne's  room,  and  took  the  light  from 
him. 

"  She  looks  very  peaceful,  does  she 
not  ?"  was  her  whisper. 

"  She  could  not  look  otherwise." 

He  went  on  down  alone,  wishing  to 
let  himself  out.  But  Elizabeth  had 
heard  his  steps,  and  was  already  at 
the  door.  "  Good-night,  Elizabeth," 
he  said,  as  he  passed  her. 

The  girl  did  not  answer.  She 
slipped  out  into  the  garden  after  him. 


"  Oh,  sir !  and  didn't  you  know  of 
it  ?"  she  whispered. 

"No." 

"  If  anybody  was  ever  gone  away 
to  be  an  angel,  sir,  it's  that  sweet 
young  lady,"  continued  Elizabeth,  let- 
ting her  tears  and  sobs  come  forth  as 
they  would.  "  She  was  just  one  here  I 
and  she's  gone  to  her  own  fit  place." 

"Ay.     It  is  so." 

"  You  should  have  been  in  this 
house  throughout  the  whole  of  the 
illness,  to  have  seen  the  difference  be- 
tween them,  sir  !  Nobody  would  be- 
lieve it.  Miss  Grame,  angry,  and 
snappish,  and  not  caring  who  suffered, 
or  who  was  ill,  or  who  toiled,  so  that 
she  was  served :  Miss  Ethel,  lying 
like  a  tender  lamb,  patient  and  meek, 
thankful  for  all  that  was  done  for  her. 
It  does  seem  hard,  sir,  that  we  should 
lose  her  forever." 

"  Not  forever,  Elizabeth,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"And  that's  true,  too  !  But,  sir, 
the  worst  is,  one  can't  think  of  that 
sort  of  consolation  just  when  one's 
troubles  are  the  freshest.  Good-night 
to  }Tou,  sir." 

Thomas  Godolphin  walked  on,  leav- 
ing the  highroad  for  a  less  frequented 
path,  the  one  by  which  he  had  come. 
About  midway  between  this  part  and 
the  railway  -  station,  a  cross -path, 
branching  to  the  right,  would  take  him 
into  Prior's  Ash.  He  went  along, 
musing.  In  the  depth  of  his  great 
grief,  there  was  no  repining.  He  was 
one  to  trace  the  finger  of  God  in  all 
things.  If  Mrs.  Godolphin  had  im- 
bued him  with  superstitious  feelings, 
she  had  also  implanted  within  him 
something  better  :  and  a  more  entire 
trust  in  God  it  was  perhaps  impossible 
for  any  one  to  feel  than  was  felt  by 
Thomas  Godolphin.  It  was  what  he 
lived  under.  He  could  not  see  why 
Ethel  should  have  been  taken, — why 
this  great  sorrow  should  fall  upon  him  ; 
— but  that  it  must  be  for  the  best  he 
implicitly  believed,.  The  best :  foi 
God  had  done  it.  How  he  was  to 
live  on  without  her  he  knew  not. 
How  he  could  support  the  lively  an- 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYPYAT. 


103 


guish  of  the  immediate  future  he  did 
uot  care  to  think.  All  his  hopes  in 
this  life  gone !  all  his  plans,  his 
projects,  uprooted  by  a  single  blow  ! 
never,  any  of  them,  to  return.  He 
might  look  yet  for  the  bliss  of  a  here- 
after,— ay,  that  remains  even  for  the 
most  heavy-laden,  thank  God  ! — but 
his  sun  of  happiness  in  this  world  had 
set  forever. 

Thomas  Godolphin  might  have  been 
all  the  better  for  a  little  sun  then, — 
not  speaking  figuratively.  I  mean 
the  good  sun  that  illumines  our  daily 
world, — that  would  be  illumining  my 
pen  and  paper  at  this  moment,  but  for 
a  damp,  ugly,  envious  fog,  which  ob- 
scures every  thing  but  itself.  The 
moon  was  not  shining  as  it  had  been 
the  last  night  he  quitted  Lady  Sarah's, 
when  he  had  left  his  farewell  kiss — 
oh,  that  he  could  have  known  it  was 
the  last ! — on  the  gentle  lips  of  Ethel. 
There  was  no  moon  yet ;  the  stars 
were  not  showing  themselves,  for  a 
black  cloud  enveloped  the  skies  like  a 
pall, — fit  accompaniment  to  his  blasted 
hopes, — and  his  path  altogether  was 
dark.  Little  wonder,  then,  that  Thomas 
Godolphin  all  but  fell  over  some  dark 
object  crouching  iu  his  way  :  he  could 
only  save  himself  by  springing  back. 
By  dint  of  a  minute  or  two's  peering 
he  discovered  it  to  be  a  woman.  She 
was  seated  on  the  bare  earth,  her 
hands  clasped  under  her  knees,  which 
were  raised  nearly  level  with  her  chin 
as  it  rested  on  them,  and  was  sway- 
ing herself  backwards  and  forwards 
as  one  does  in  grief,  like  Lady  Sarah 
Grame  had  done  not  long  before. 

"  Why  do  you  sit  here  ?"  cried 
Thomas  Godolphin.  "  I  nearly  fell 
over  you." 

"  Little  matter  if  ye'd  fell  over  me 
and  killed  me,"  was  the  response  of 
the  woman,  given  without  raising  her 
head,  or  making  a  change  in  her  po- 
sition. "  'T  would  only  have  been 
one  less  in  a  awful  cold  world,  as 
seems  made  for  naught  but  trouble. 
If  the  one-half  of  us  was  out  of  it, 
there'd  be  room  perhaps  for  them  as 
was  left." 

"  Is  it  Mrs.  Bond  ?"  asked  Thomas 


Godolphin,    as   he    caught    a    better 
glimpse  of  her  features. 

"  Didn't  you  know  me,  sir  ?  I 
know'd  you  by  the  voice  as  soon^as 
you  spoke.  You  have  got  trouble, 
too,  I  hear.  The  world's  full  of 
nothing  else.     Why  do  it  come  ?" 

"  Get  up,"  said  Thomas  Godolphin. 
"Why  do  you  sit  there?  Why  are 
you  here  at  all  at  this  night-hour  ?" 

"  It's  where  I'm  a-going  to  stop  till 
morning,"  returned  the  woman,  sul- 
lenly. "  There  shall  be  no  getting- 
up  for  me." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"' 
he  resumed. 

"  Trouble,"  she  shortly  answered. 
"  I've  been  a-toiling  up  to  the  work'us, 
asking  for  a  loaf,  or  a  bit  o'  money, — 
any  thing  they'd  give  to  me,  just  to 
keep  body  and  soul  together  for  my 
children.  They  turned  me  back 
again.  They'll  give  me  nothing.  I 
may  go  into  the  union  with  the  chil- 
dren if  I  will,  but  not  a  stiver  of 
help '11  they  afford  me  out  of  it.  Me, 
with  a  corpse  in  the  house,  and  a  bare 
cubbort !" 

"A  corpse  !"  involuntarily  repeated 
Thomas  Godolphin.    "  Who  is  dead  ?.'-' 

"John." 

Curtly  as  the  word  was  spoken,  the 
tone  yet  betrayed  its  own  pain.  This 
John,  the  eldest  son  of  the  Bonds,  had 
been  attacked  with  the  fever  at  the 
same  time  as  the  father.  The  father 
had  succumbed  to  it  at  once  ;  the  son 
had  recovered,  or  at  least  had  appeared 
to  be  recovering. 

"  I  thought  John  was  getting  bet- 
ter," observed  Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  He  might  ha'  got  better,  if  he'd  had 
things  to  make  him  better  !  Wine 
and  meat  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  He 
hadn't  got  'em  :  and  he's  dead." 

Now  a  subscription  had  been  en- 
tered into  for  the  relief  of  the  poor 
sufferers  from  the  fever,  Godolphin, 
Crosse,  and  Godolphin  having  been 
amidst  its  most  liberal  contributors; 
and,  to  Thomas  Godolphin's  certain 
knowledge,  a  full  share,  and  a  very 
good  share,  had  been  handed  to  the 
Bonds, — quite  sufficient  to  furnish 
suitable  nourishment  for  John  Bond 


104 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


for  some  time  to  come.  He  did  not 
say  to  the  woman,  "  You  have  had 
enough  :  Where's  it  gone  to  ?  It  has 
baen  wasted  in  riot."  That  it  had 
been  wasted  in  riot  and  improvidence 
there  was  no  doubt ;  for  it  was  in  the 
nature  of  the  Bonds  so  to  waste  it. 
To  cast  reproach  in  the  hour  of  afflic- 
tion was  not  the  religion  of  common 
life  practised  by  Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  Yes,  they  turned  me  back,"  she 
resumed,  swaying  herself  with  a  bent 
head,  as  before.  "  They  wouldn't 
give  me  as  much  as  a  bit  o'  mouldy 
bread.  I  wasn't  going  home  without 
taking  something  to  my  famished 
children,  and  I  wasn't  a-going  to  beg 
like  a  common  tramp  ;  so  I  just  sat 
myself  down  here,  and  I  shan't  care 
if  I'm  found  stark  and  stiff  in  the 
morning  !" 

"  Get  up  !  get  up  !"  said  Thomas 
Godolphin.  "  I  will  give  you  some- 
thing for  bread  for  your  children  to- 
night." 

In  the  midst  of  his  own  sorrow  he 
could  feel  for  her, — improvident  old 
sinner  though  she  was,  and  though  he 
knew  her  so  to  be.  He  coaxed  and 
soothed,  and  finally  prevailed  upon 
her  to  rise  ;  but  she  was  in  a  reckless, 
sullen  mood,  and  it  took  him  a  little 
effort  before  it  was  effected.  She 
burst  into  tears  when  she  thanked 
him,  and  turned  off  in  the  direction 
of  the  pollard  cottages. 


CHAPTER    XIY. 

DUST   TO   DUST. 

The  reflection  of  Mr.  Snow's  bald 
head  was  conspicuous  on  the  surgery- 
blind  :  he  was  standing  between  the 
window  and  the  lamp.  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin observed  it  as  he  passed.  He 
turned  to  the  surgery-door,  which 
was  at  the  side  of  the  house,  opened 
it,  and  saw  that  Mr.  Snow  was 
alone. 

The  surgeon  turned  his  head  at  the 


interruption,  put  down  a  glass  jar 
which  he  held,  and  grasped  his  visit- 
or's hand,  in  silence. 

"  Snow,  why  did  you  not  write  for 
me?" 

Mr.  Snow  brought  down  his  hand 
on  a  pair  of  tiny  scales,  causing  them 
to  jangle  and  tinkle.  He  had  been 
bottling  up  his  anger  against  Lady 
Sarah  for  some  days  now,  and  this 
was  the  first  explosion. 

"Because  I  understood  that  she 
had  done  so.  I  was  present  when 
that  poor  child  asked  her  to  do  it.  I 
found  her  on  the  floor  in  Sarah  Anne's 
chamber.  On  the  floor,  if  you'll  be- 
lieve me, — lying  there,  because  she 
could  not  hold  her  aching  head  up. 
My  lady  had  dragged  her  out  of  bed 
in  the  morning,  ill  as  she  was,  and 
forced  her  to  attend  as  usual  upon  Sa- 
rah Anne.  I  got  it  all  out  of  Eliza- 
beth. '  Mamma,'  she  said,  when  I 
pronounced  it  to  be  the  fever,  though 
she  was  almost  beyond  speaking  then, 
'  you  will  write  to  Thomas  Godolphin.' 
I  never  supposed  but  what  my  lady 
did  it.  Your  sister,  Miss  Godolphin, 
inquired  if  you  had  been  written  for, 
and  I  told  her  yes." 

"  Snow,"  came  the  next  sad  words, 
"  could  you  not  have  saved  her  ?" 

The  surgeon  shook  his  head  and  an- 
swered in  a  quiet  tone,  looking  down 
at  the  stopper  of  a  phial,  which  he  had 
taken  up  and  was  turning  about  list- 
lessly in  his  fingers. 

"Neither  care  nor  skill  could  save 
her.  I  gave  her  the  best  I  had  to  give, 
— as  did  Dr.Beale.  Godolphin," — rais- 
ing his  quick,  dark  eyes,  flashing  then 
with  a  peculiar  light, — "  she  was 
ready  to  go  :  let  it  be  your  consola- 
tion.'" 

Thomas  Godolphin  made  no  answer, 
and  there  was  a  pause  of  silence.  Mr. 
Snow  resumed:  "  As  to  my  lady,  the 
best  consolation  I  wish  her  is,  that  she 
may  have  her  heart  wrung  with  re- 
membrance for  years  to  come  !  I  don't 
care  what  people  may  preach  about 
charity  and  forgiveness  ;  I  do  wish  it. 
But  she'll  be  brought  to  her  senses, 
unless  I  am  mistaken  ;  she  has  lost 
her  treasure  and  kept  her  bane.     A 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASIILYDYAT, 


105 


year  or  two  more,  and  that's  what  Sa- 
rah Anne  will  be." 

"  She  ought  to  have  written  for 
me." 

"  She  ought  to  do  many  things  that 
she  does  not.  She  ought  to  have  sent 
Ethel  from  the  house,  as  I  told  her, 
the  instant  the  disorder  appeared  in  it. 
Not  she.  She  kept  her  in  her  insane 
selfishness  ;  and  now  I  hope  she's  sat- 
isfied with  her  work.  When  alarm- 
ing symptoms  showed  themselves  in 
Ethel,  on  the  fourth  day  of  her  illness 
I  think  it  was,  I  said  to  my  lady,  '  It  is 
strange  what  can  be  keeping  Mr.  Godol- 
phin  I"  '  Oh,'  said  she,  '  I  did  not  write 
for  him  !'  '  Not  write  !'  I  answered  ; 
and  I  fear  I  used  an  ugly  word  to  my  la- 
dy's face.  '  I'll  write  at  once,'  returned 
she  humbly.  '  Of  course,'  cried  I, 
'  when  the  steed's  stolen  we  shut  the 
stable-door.'  It's  the  way  of  the 
world." 

Another  pause.  "  I  would  have 
given  any  thing  to  take  Ethel  from 
the  house  at  the  time, — to  take  her 
from  the  town,"  observed  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin,  in  a  low  tone.  "  I  said  so 
then.     But  it  could  not  be." 

"  I  should  have  done  it  in  your 
place,"  said  Mr.  Snow.  "  If  my  lady 
had  said  No,  I'd  have  carried  her  off 
in  the  face  of  it.  Not  married,  you 
say  ?  Rubbish  to  that !  Everybody 
knows  she'd  have  been  safe  with  you. 
And  you  would  have  been  married  as 
soon  as  was  convenient.  What  are 
forms  and  ceremonies,  and  carking 
tongues,  in  comparison  with  a  girl's 
life, — a  life  precious  as  was  Ethel's  ?" 

Thomas  Godolphin  leaned  his  fore- 
head in  his  hand,  lost  in  the  retrospect. 
Oh,  that  he  had  taken  her  !  that  he 
had  set  at  naught  what  he  had  then 
bowed  to,  the  convenances  of  society  ! 
She  might  have  been  by  his  side  now, 
in  health  and  life,  to  bless  him  !  Doubt- 
ing words  interrupted  the  train  of 
thought. 

"  And  yet  I  don't  know,"  the  sur- 
geon was  repeating  in  a  dreamy  man- 
ner. "  What  is  to  be,  will  be.  We 
look  back,  all  of  us,  and  say,  '  If  I  had 
acted  thus,  if  I  had  done  the  other, 
so-and-so  would  not  have  happened, — 


events  would  have  turned  out  differ- 
ently.' But  who  is  to  be  sure  of  it? 
Had  you  conveyed  Ethel  out  of  harm's 
way, — as  we  might  have  flu  night  it, — 
there's  no  telling  but  she'd  have  had 
the  fever  just  the  same  :  her  blood 
might  have  become  tainted  before  she 
left  the  house.  There's  no  knowing, 
Mr.  Godolphin." 

"True.     Good-evening,  Snow." 

He  turned  suddenly  and  hastily  to 
the  outer  door,  but  the  surgeon  caught 
him  up  ere  he  passed  its  threshold, 
and  touched  his  arm  to  detain  him. 
They  stood  there  in  the  obscurity, 
their  faces  shaded  in  the  dusk)7-  night. 

"  She  left  you  a  parting  word,  Mr. 
Godolphin." 

"Ah?" 

"  An  hour  before  she  died  she  was 
calm  and  sensible,  though  fearfully 
weak.  Lady  Sarah  had  gone  to  her 
favorite,  and  I  was  alone  with  Ethel. 
'  Has  he  not  come  yet  ?'  she  asked  me, 
opening  her  eyes.  '  My  dear,'  I  said, 
'  he  could  not  come ;  he  was  never  writ- 
ten for.'  For  I  knew  she  alluded  to 
you,  and  was  determined  to  tell  her 
the  truth,  dying  though  she  was. 
'What  shall  I  say  to  him  for  you  ?'  I 
continued.  She  put  up  her  hand  to 
motion  my  face  nearer  hers,  for  her 
voice  wras  growing  faint.  '  Tell  him, 
with  my  dear  love,  not  to  grieve,'  she 
whispered  between  her  panting  breath. 
'  Tell  him  that  I  am  but  gone  on  be- 
fore.' I  think  they  were  almost  the 
last  words  she  spoke." 

Thomas  Godolphin  leaned  against 
the  modest  post  of  the  surgery-en- 
trance, and  drank  in  the  words.  Then 
he  wrung  the  doctor's  hand,  and  depart- 
ed,— hurrying  along  the  street  like  one 
who  shrank  from  observation  ;  for  he 
did  not  care,  just  then,  to  encounter 
the  gaze  of  his  fellow-men. 

Coming  with  a  quick  step  up  the 
side  street,  in  which  the  entrance  to 
the  surgery  was  situated,  was  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Hastings.  He  stopped  to 
accost  the  surgeon. 

"  Was  that  Mr.  Godolphin  ?" 

"  Ay.     This  is  a  blow  for  him." 

Mr.  Hastings's  voice  insensibly  sank 
to  a  whisper.     "  Maria  tells  me  that 


106 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


he  did  not  know  of  Ethel's  death  or 
illness.  Until  they  arrived  here  to- 
night, they  thought  it  was  Sarah  Anne 
who  died.  He  went  up  to  Lady  Sa- 
rah's after  the  train  came  in,  thinking 
so." 

"Lady  Sarah's  a  fool,"  was  the 
complimentary  rejoinder  of  Mr.  Snow. 

"  She  is  in  some  things,"  warmly 
assented  the  rector.  "  The  tele- 
graphic message  she  despatched  to 
Scotland,  telling  of  the  death,  was  so 
obscurely  worded  as  to  cause  them  to 
assume  that  it  alluded  to  Sarah 
Anne." 

"  Ah  well !  she's  only  heaping  bur- 
dens upon  her  conscience,"  rejoined 
Mr.  Snow,  in  a  philosophic  tone. 
"  She  has  lost  Ethel  through  want  of 
care  (as  I  firmly  believe)  in  not  keep- 
ing her  out  of  the  way  of  infection  ; 
she  prevented  their  last  meeting 
through  not  writing  to  him  ;  she " 

"  He  could  not  have  saved  her,  had 
he  been  here,"  interrupted  Mr.  Hast- 
ings. 

"  Nobody  said  he  could.  There 
would  have  been  satisfaction  in  it  for 
him,  though.  And  for  her,  too,  poor 
child." 

Mr.  Hastings  did  not  contest  the 
point.  He  was  so  very  practical  a 
man  (in  contradistinction  to  an  imagi- 
native one)  that  he  saw  little  use  in 
"  last"  interviews,  unless  they  were 
made  productive  of  actual  good.  He 
was  disposed  to  regard  such  as  bor- 
dering on  the  sentimental. 

"  I  have  been  down  to  Whinnet's," 
he  remarked.  "  They  sent  to  the  rec- 
tory, while  I  was  gone  to  the  station 
to  meet  Maria.  That  raw  footboy  of 
theirs  came,  saying,  '  She'd  not  live 
through  the  night,  and  wanted  the 
parson.'  I  had  a  great  mind  to  send 
word  back  that  if  she  was  in  want  of 
the  parson,  she  should  have  seen  him 
before." 

"  She's  as  likely  to  live  through 
this  night  as  she  has  been  any  night 
for  the  last  six  months,"  said  Mr. 
Snow.  "  Not  a  day,  since  then,  but 
she  has  been,  as  may  be  said,  dying." 

"And  never  to  awaken  to  a  thought 
that  it  might  be  desirable  to  make  ready 


for  the  journey  until  the  twelfth  hour  1" 
exclaimed  Mr.  Hastings.  '  When  I 
have  a  convenient  season  I  will  call 
for  thee  V  If  I  have  been  to  the 
Whinnet's  once  latterly,  I  have  been 
ten  times,  and  never  could  get  to  see 
her.  Why  don't  these  indifferent  peo- 
ple turn  Papists  ?" 

Mr.  Snow  did  not  detect  the  point 
of  the  remark.  "  That  they  may  be 
cured  by  a  modern  miracle  ?"  asked 
he, — which  caused  the  rector  of  All 
Souls'  to  give  a  short,  petulant  stamp 
on  the  flags  with  the  heel  of  his  shoe. 

"  I  say  that  they  wilfully  put  oil'  all 
thought  of  death  until  the  twelfth 
hour.  And  then  they  send  for  me,  or 
for  one  of  my  brethren,  and  expect 
that  an  hour's  devotion  will  ensure 
their  entrance  into  heaven.  Let  such 
go  to  the  Vicar  of  Rome  for  the  keys," 
he  cynically  added.  "  I  don't  keep 
them." 

"  Did  Mrs.  Whinnet  send  for  you 
herself  ?  or  did  the  household  ?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Snow. 

"  She,  I  expect :  she  was  dressed 
for  the  occasion,"  replied  the  clergy- 
man, more  cynically  than  before.  "  Sht> 
wore  white  gloves,  and  had  a  few  dia- 
mond rings  drawn  on  over  their  fin- 
gers I     Will  she  live  long  ?" 

"  It  is  uncertain.  She  may  last  for 
six  months  longer :  or  she  may  go 
next  week.  It  will  be  sudden  when 
it  does  come.  Have  you  heard  that 
Bond  is  dead  ?" 

"  I  should  think  I  have  !"  said  the 
rector.  "  His  mother  went  up  to  the 
workhouse  this  evening,  and  pretty 
nearly  turned  the  place  inside  out 
with  her  abuse.  She  said  he  had  died 
of  starvation,  and  they  had  killed  him, 
through  not  affording  out-door  relief. 
Paxton  met  me  and  told  me  about  it, 
as  I  was  walking  to  the  station.  '  Is 
it  true  that  he  has  died  from  want  of 
food  V  asked  Paxton  of  me.  I  think 
he  was  getting  a  little  alarmed,  you 
see,  Snow,  lest  he  should  be  hauled 
over  by  the  board  and  brought  in  res- 
ponsible. 'Nonsense,'  said  I,  'he  has 
died  of  the  fever,'  which  sent  Paxton 
away  contented." 

"  You   are    both   wrong,"  rejoined 


THE      SnADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


107 


Mr.  Snow.  "  John  Bond  died  neither 
of  the  fever  nor  of  want  of  food  :  but 
from  the  effects  of  his  irregular  life. 
He  got  well  of  the  fever ;  but  his  con- 
stitution was  shattered,  and  could  not 
carry  him  through  the  debility  that 
the  fever  left.  His  sins  took  him  to 
the  grave.  As  to  starvation, — they 
held  a  carouse  in  the  house  only  last 
Sunday.  You  wise  gentlemen  should 
not  have  made  them  a  present  of  quite 
so  much  money  all  at  once,"  nodded 
Mr.  Snow. 

The  rector  spoke  up  impulsively,  as 
if  the  subject  angered  him.  "  I  washed 
my  hands  of  it, — I  washed  my  hands 
of  it  at  the  time  !  I  told  them  it  was 
a  senseless  thing  to  do  :  but  I  was 
not  listened  to.  It's  not  possible  to 
beat  provident  habits  into  such  as  the 
Bonds.  Give  them  a  five-pound  note, 
and  it  is  flung  away  in  so  many  hours. 
They'll  live  as  they  always  have  lived : 
tope  and  stuff  one  day,  and  starve  the 
next," 

He  turned  away  as  he  spoke,  and 
walked  home  at  a  brisk  pace.  Maria 
was  alone  when  he  entered.  Mrs. 
Hastings  and  Grace  were  out  of  the 
room,  talking  to  some  late  applicant : 
a  clergyman's  house,  like  a  parish 
apothecary's,  is  never  free  long  to- 
gether. Divested  of  her  traveling 
cloaks,  and  seated  before  the  fire  in 
her  quiet,  merino  dress,  Maria  looked 
as  much  at  home  as  if  she  had  never 
quitted  it.  The  blaze,  flickering  on 
her  face,  betrayed  to  the  keen  glance 
of  the  rector  that  her  eyelashes  were 
wet. 

"  Grieving  after  Broomhead  already, 
Maria  ?"  asked  he,  his  tone  a  stern 
one. 

"  Oh,  papa,  no !  I  am  glad  to  be  at 
home.    I  was  thinking  of  poor  Ethel." 

"  She  is  better  off.  The  time  may 
come,  Maria, — we  none  of  us  know 
what  is  before  us, — when  some  of  you 
young  ones  who  are  left  may  wish  you 
had  died  as  she  has.  Many  a  one, 
battling  for  very  existence  with  the 
world's  carking  cares,  wails  out  a  vain 
wish  that  he  had  been  taken  early 
from  the  evil  to  come." 

"  It  must  be  so  dreadful  for  Thomas 


Godolphin  !"  Maria  resumed,  looking 
straight  into  the  fire,  and  speaking  as 
if  in  commune  with  herself,  more  than 
to  her  father. 

"  Thomas  Godolphin  must  find  an- 
other love." 

It  was  one  of  those  phrases,  spoken 
in  satire  only,  to  which  the  rector  of 
All  Souls'  was  occasionally  given. 
He  saw  so  much  to  condemn  in  the 
world — things  which  grated  harshly 
on  his  superior  mind — that  his  speech 
had  become  imbued  with  a  touch  of 
gall,  and  he  would  often  give  utter- 
ance to  cynical  remarks  not  at  the 
moment  called  for. 

Maria  took  the  words  literally.  She 
turned  to  Mr.  Hastings ;  her  cheek 
flushed,  her  hands  clasped, — altogether 
betraying  vivid  emotion.  "  Oh,  papa, 
another  love  !  You  should  not  say  it 
of  Thomas  Godolphin.  Love  such  as 
his  is  not  for  a  week  or  a  year :  it  is 
for  all  time." 

The  rector  paused  a  moment  in  his 
reply.  His  penetrating  gaze  was  fixed 
upon  his  daughter.  "  May  I  inquire 
whence  you  have  derived  your  knowl- 
edge of  '  love,'  Miss  Maria  Hastings  ft' 

Her  eyes  drooped,  her  face  turned 
crimson,  her  manner  grew  confused. 
She  turned  her  countenance  from  that 
of  her  father,  and  stammered  forth 
some  lame  excuse.  "  Everybody  knows, 
papa,  that  Thomas  Godolphin  was 
fond  of  Ethel." 

"Possibly.  But  everybody  does  not 
know  that  Maria  Hastings  deems  her- 
self qualified  to  descant  upon  the  sub- 
ject," was  the  reply  of  the  rector. 
And  Maria  shrank  into  silence. 

There  came  a  day,  not  many  day? 
afterwards,  when  Maria  Hastings,  her 
sisters,  and  two  of  her  brothers,  were 
gathered  in  sombre  silence  around  the 
study-window.  The  room  was  built 
out  at  the  back  of  the  house,  over  the 
kitchen,  and  its  side  window  com- 
manded a  full  view  of  the  churchyard 
of  All  Souls',  and  of  the  church-porch, 
— the  only  window  in  the  house  which 
did  command  the  uninterrupted  view. 
It  was  known  to  the  public  that  noth- 
ing displeased  the  Reverend  Mr.  Hast- 
ings more  than  for  irreverent  idlers 


108 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


to  come  into  the  churchyard,  staring 
and  gaping  and  whispering  their  com- 
ments, while  he  was  performing  the 
service  of  the  burial  of  the  dead.  And 
his  wishes  were  generally  respected, 
the  mob  contenting  themselves  with 
collecting  in  a  dense  body  before  the 
entrance-gates, — those  who  were  lucky 
enough  to  get  near  pushing  their 
noses  through  the  bars.  Not  a  few 
noses  would  bear  afterwards  the  marks 
of  the  beadle's  staff.  It  was  that  func- 
tionary's custom  to  plant  himself  with- 
inside  the  gate,  staff  in  hand,  his  back 
to  the  mob,  and  his  face  to  the  cere- 
mony :  when,  by  a  dexterous  back- 
handed trick,  which  the  beadle  had 
become  expert  in,  down  would  come 
the  staff  upon  the  array  of  noses,  in 
the  most  inopportune  and  unexpected 
manner.  This  had  once  been  produc- 
tive of  what  the  beadle  called  a  row, 
and  the  mob  were  conveyed  off-hand 
before  the  sitting  magistrates.  The 
result  was,  that  fourteen  rebels  were 
condemned  to  four-and-twenty  hours 
solitary  confinement,  and  the  beadle, 
his  cocked  hat,  and  his  staff,  reigned 
triumphant  evermore. 

But  on  this  day  that  we  are  speaking 
of  the  churchyard  was  not  left  quite  so 
free  as  ordinarily,  and  stragglers  took 
up  their  stations  within  it,  defying  the 
beadle.  Mr.  Hastings's  family  stole 
into  the  room  alluded  to.  Grace,  who 
constituted  herself  mistress  of  the 
others  a  vast  deal  more  than  Mrs. 
Hastings  herself  did,  allowed  the  blind 
to  be  drawn  up  about  two  inches  at 
the  bottom  of  the  panes  ;  and  Maria, 
Isaac,  Harry,  and  Rose,  kneeling  down 
for  convenience  sake,  brought  their 
faces  into  contact  with  it,  as  the  mob 
outside  the  churchyard  gate  did  there. 
Human  nature  is  the  same  everywhere, 
— whether  in  the  carefully-trained  chil- 
dren of  a  Christian  gentleman,  or  in 
those  who  know  no  training  but  what 
the  streets  give. 

The  funeral,  even  now,  was  inside 
the  church  :  it  had  been  inside  so  long 
that  those  eager  watchers,  estimating 
time  by  their  impatience,  began  to 
think  it  was  never  coming  out.  A 
sudden  movement  in  the  church-porch 


reassured  them.  "  Grace,"  said  Maria 
below  her  breath,  "  it  is  coming  now." 
And  Grace  knelt  down  and  made  one 
with  the  rest.  Grace  had  to  stoop 
her  head  uncomfortably  as  they  did. 
But  they  dared  not  have  the  blind 
higher,  lest  Mr.  Hastings  should  detect 
them  at  the  window;  or,  worse  still, 
Thomas  Godolphin. 

Slowly — slowly — on  it  came.  Tl.e 
Reverend  Mr.  Hastings  first  in  his 
white  robes ;  the  coffin  next ;  Thomas 
Godolphin  last,  with  a  stranger  by  his 
side.  Nothing  more,  save  some  pall- 
bearers in  their  white  scarfs  and  the 
necessary  attendants.  It  was  a  per- 
fectly simple  funeral,  according  well 
with  what  the  dead  had  been  in  her 
simple  life. 

The  sight  of  this  stranger  took  the 
curious  gazers  by  surprise.  Who  was 
he  ?  A  spare,  gentlemanly  man,  past 
the  middle  age,  with  a  red  nose  and 
an  unmistakable  wig  on  his  head.  The 
rumors  circulating  in  Prior's  Ash  had 
been  that  Thomas  Godolphin  would 
be  the  sole  mourner.  Lady  Sarah 
Grame's  relatives — and  she  could  not 
boast  of  many — lived  far  north  of 
Aberdeen.  "  Who  can  he  be  ?"  mur- 
mured Grace  Hastings. 

"  Why  don't  you  girls  know  ?  That's 
through  your  having  stuck  yourselves 
in  the  house  all  the  morning  for  fear 
you  should  lose  the  funeral.  If  yon 
had  gone  out  you'd  have  heard  who 
he  is."  The  retort  came  from  Harry 
Hastings.  Let  it  be  a  funeral  or  a 
wedding  that  may  be  taking  place 
under  their  very  sight,  boys  must  be 
boys  all  the  world  over.  And  so  they 
ever  will  be. 

"  Who  is  he,  then  ?"  asked  Grace. 

"  He  is  Ethel's  uncle,"  answered 
Harry.  "  He  arrived  by  the  train  this 
morning.  The  Earl  of  Macsomething." 

"  The  Earl  of  Macsomething  ?"  re- 
peated Grace. 

Harry  nodded.  "  Mac  begins  the 
name,  and  I  forget  the  rest.  Lady 
Sarah  was  his  sister." 

"  Is,  you  mean,"  said  Grace.  °  It 
must  be  Lord  Macdoune." 

The  church-porch  was  opposite  the 
study-window.     The  grave  had  boen 


TIIE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


109 


dug  in  a  line  with  the  two,  much  nearer 
the  window  than  the  church, — in  fact, 
nearly  underneath  the  hedge  of  the 
burial-ground.  On  it  came,  crossing 
the  broad  churchyard  path  which 
wound  round  to  the  road,  crossing 
over  patches  of  grass,  treading  be- 
tween mounds  and  graves.  The  cler- 
gyman took  his  place  at  the  head,  the 
mourners  near  him,  the  rest  disposing 
themselves  decently  around. 

"  Grace,"  whispered  Isaac,  "  if  we 
had  the  window  open  an  inch  we 
should  hear."  And  Grace  was  pleased 
to  accord  her  sanction,  and  they  si- 
lently raised  it. 

"  Man  that  is  born  of  a  woman  hath 
but  a  short  time  to  live,  and  is  full  of 
misery.  He  cometh  up  and  is  cut 
down  like  a  flower ;  he  fleeth  as  it 
were  a  shadow,  and  never  continueth 
in  one  stay." 

The  children — indeed  they  were  but 
little  more — hushed  their  breath  and 
listened,  and  looked  at  Thomas  Godol- 
phin.  Thomas  Godolphin  stood  there, 
— his  head  bowed,  his  face  still,  the 
gentle  wind  stirring  his  thin,  dark  hair. 
It  was  probably  a  marvel  to  himself, 
in  after-life,  how  he  had  contrived,  in 
that  closing  hour,  to  retain  his  calm- 
ness before  the  world. 

"  The  coffin's  lowered  at  last  1" 
broke  out  Harry,  who  had  been  more 
curious  to  watch  the  movements  of 
the  men  than  the  aspect  of  Thomas 
Godolphin. 

"  Hush,  sir !"  sharply  rebuked  Grace. 
And  the  minister's  voice  again  stole 
over  the  silence. 

"  Forasmuch  as  it  hath  pleased  Al- 
mighty God  of  his  great  mercy  to  take 
unto  himself  the  soul  of  our  dear  sister 
here  departed,  we  therefore  commit 
her  body  to  the  ground  ;  earth  to  earth 
....  ashes  to  ashes  ....  dust  to  dust 
....  in  sure  and  certain  hope  of  the 
resurrection  to  eternal  life,  through 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ;  who  shall 
change  our  vile  body,  that  it  may  be 
like  unto  his  glorious  body,  according 
to  the  mighty  working,  whereby  he  is 
able  to  subdue  all  things  to  himself." 

Every  word  came  home  to  Thomas 
Godolphin's  senses  ;  every  syllable  vi- 


brated upon  his  heartstrings.  That 
sure  and  certain  hope  laid  hold  of  hi? 
soul  never  again  to  quit  it.  It  diffused 
its  own  holy  peace  and  calm  in  hi? 
troubled  mind  ;  and  never  until  that 
moment  had  he  fully  realized  the 
worth,  the  truth,  of  her  dying  legacy  : 
"  Tell  him  that  I  am  but  gone  on  be- 
fore." A  few  years, — God,  now  pres- 
ent with  him,  alone  knew  how  few  or 
how  many, — and  Thomas  Godolphin 
would  have  joined  her  in  eternal  life. 

But  why  had  Mr.  Hastings  come  to 
a  temporary  pause  ?  Because  his  eyes 
had  fallen  upon  one  then  gliding  up 
from  the  entrance  of  the  churchyard 
to  take  his  place  amidst  the  mourners, 
— one  who  had  evidently  arrived  in  a 
hurry.  He  wore  neither  scarf  nor 
hatband,  neither  cloak  nor  hood, — 
nothing  but  a  full  suit  of  plain  black 
clothes. 

"  Look,  Maria  !"  whispered  Grace. 

It  was  George  Godolphin.  He  fell 
quietly  in  below  his  brother,  his  hat 
carried  in  his  hand,  his  head  bowed, 
his  fair  curls  waving  in  the  breeze.  It 
was  all  the  work  of  an  instant ;  and 
the  minister  resumed  : 

"  I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven  say- 
ing unto  me,  Write,  From  henceforth 
blessed  are  the»dead  which  die  in  the 
Lord  ;  even  so  saith  the  Spirit ;  for 
they  rest  from  their  labors." 

And  so  went  on  the  service  to  the 
end. 

The  beadle,  with  much  bustle  and  a 
liberal  use  of  his  staff,  scattered  and 
dispersed  the  mob  from  the  gates,  so 
as  to  clear  a  passage.  Two  mourning 
coaches  were  in  waiting.  Thomas 
Godolphin  came  forth,  leaning  on  his 
brother's  arm,  both  of  them  bare- 
headed still.  They  entered  one  ;  Lord 
Macdoune  stepped  into  the  other. 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Hastings  passed  through 
his  private  gate  to  his  own  garden  ; 
and  half  a  dozen  men  were  shovelling 
in  earth  upon  the  coffin  as  fast  as  they 
could  shovel  it,  sending  it  with  a  rattle 
on  the  bright  plate  which  told  who 
was  mouldering  within  : 

"  Ethel  Grame.  Aged  twenty  years. " 


no 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A   MIDNIGHT   WALK. 

"Thomas!"  cried  George  Godol- 
phin,  leaning  forward  and  seizing  his 
brother's  hand  impulsively,  as  the 
mourning-coach  paced  slowly  on,  "I 
should  have  been  here  in  good  time, 
but  for  a  delay  in  the  train." 

"  How  did  you  hear  of  it  ?  I  did 
not  know  where  to  write  to  you," 
calmly  asked  Thomas. 

"I  heard  of  it  at  Broomhead.  I 
went  back  there,  and  then  I  came  off 
at  once.  Thomas,  could  they  not  save 
her  ?" 

A  slight  negative  movement  was  all 
Thomas  Godolphin's  answer.  "How 
did  you  find  your  father,  George  ?" 

"  Breaking  :  breaking  fast.  Thom- 
as, all  his  talk  is,  that  he  must  come 
home  to  die." 

"  To  Ashlydyat.  I  know.  How  is 
he  to  come  to  it?  The  Folly  is  not 
Ashlydyat.  He  has  desired  me  to  see 
that  he  is  at  Prior's  Ash  before  Christ- 
mas, and  I  shall  do  so." 

George  looked  surprised.  "  Desired 
you  to  see  that  he  is  ?" 

"  If  he  is  not  back  speedily,  I  am  to 
go  to  Broomhead." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  That  your  authority, 
upholding  his,  may  be  pitted  against 
my  lady's.  Take  care,  Thomas  ;  she 
may  prove  stronger  than  both  of  you 
put  together." 

Thomas  Godolphin  sat  in  his  place 
at  the  bank,  opening  the  morning  let- 
ters. It  was  some  days  subsequent 
to  the  interment  of  Ethel  Grame,  and 
the  second  week  of  December  was  al- 
ready on  the  wane.  In  two  days  more 
it  was  his  intention  to  start  for  Broom- 
head :  for  no  tidings  arrived  of  the  re- 
turn of  Sir  George.  The  very  last  of 
the  letters  he  came  upon  was  one  bear- 
ing the  Scotch  post-mark, — a  little, 
poor  note  with  a  scrawled  address : 
no  wonder  the  sorting  clerk  had  placed 
it  underneath  1  It  looked  very  obscure 
in  comparison  with  those  large  blue 
letters  and  their  business  hands. 

Thomas  Godolphin  knew  the  writ- 
ing.    It  was  Margery's  ;  and  we  may 


as  well  read  the  contents  with  him 
verbatim : 

"  Mr.  Thomas,  Sir, — I  imbrace  this 
favurible  oportunaty  of  adresing  you 
for  I  considur  it  my  duty  to  take  up 
my  pen  and  inform  you  about  my  mas- 
ter, jETe'jj  not  long  for  this  world,  Mr. 
Thomas  I  know  it  by  good  tokens 
which  I  don't  write  not  being  a  easy 
writer  but  they  are  none  the  less  true, 
The  master's  fretting  his  life  away  be- 
cause he  is  not  at  home  and  she  is  a 
keeping  him  because  she's  timorus  of 
the  fever,  But  you  saw  how  it  was  sir 
when  you  was  here  and  it's  the  same 
story  still,  There'd  have  been  a  fight 
for  it  with  my  lady  but  if  I'd  been  you 
Mr.  Thomas  I'd  have  took  him  also 
when  me  and  the  young  ladies  went 
with  you  to  Prior's  Ash,  When  I  got 
back  here,  sir  I  see  a  awful  change  in 
him  and  Mr.  George  he  see  it  but  my 
lady  didn't,  I  pen  these  here  lines  sir 
to  say  you  had  better  come  off  at  once 
and  not  wait  for  it  to  be  nearer  Christ- 
mas, The  poor  master  he's  always 
saying  Thomas  is  coming  for  inc. 
Thomas  is  coming  for  me  hut  I'd  not 
answer  for  it  now  that  he  will  ever  get 
back  alive,  Sir  it  was  the  worst  day's 
work  he  ever  did  to  go  away  at  all 
from  Ashlydyat  if  my  lady  was  dying 
to  live  at  the  new  Folly  place  she  might 
have  went  to  it  but  not  him,  When  we 
do  a  foolish  wrong  thing  we  don't 
think  of  the  consekenses  at  the  time  at 
least  not  much  of  'em  but  we  think 
all  the  more  after  and  fret  our  hearts 
out  with  blame  and  it  have  been 
slowly  killing  him  ever  since,  I  am 
vexed  to  disturb  you  Mr.  Thomas  with 
this  epistle  for  I  know  you  must  be  in 
enough  grief  of  your  own  just  now, 
Your  humble  servant 

"Margery." 

Thomas  Godolphin  read  it  over 
twice,  and  then  crossed  to  the  other 
side  of  the  private  room,  where  sat  a 
gentleman  at  another  desk.  A  tall, 
portly  man,  with  a  fresh  color,  large, 
keen  dark  eyes,  and  hair  white  as  snow. 
It  was  Mr.  Crosse. 

"Any  thing  particular,  Thomas?" 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


111 


he  asked,  as  Thomas  Godolphin  put 
the  letter  in  his  hand. 

"Not  in  business.  Read  it,  will 
you  ?" 

Mr  Crosse  read  the  letter  through. 
"  Is  it  my  advice  you  wish  for  ?" 
asked  he,  when  he  came  to  the  last 
word. 

"  Not  exactly, "  replied  Thomas  Go- 
(iolphin.     "  I  have  made  up  my  mind, 

I  believe." 

"  To  go  immediately  V 
"Yes.  Within  an  hour." 
"  Right.  It  is  what  I  should  have 
recommended  you  to  do,  had  you  been 
undecided.  When  it  comes  to  letter- 
writing  with  Margery,  the  thing  is  se- 
rious, rely  upon  it." 

Thomas  Godolphin  returned  to  his 
own  place,  gave  some  twenty  minutes 
to  business,  and  then  passed  into  the 
sitting-room.  Janet  and  Bessy  were 
alone  in  it.  Janet  was  looking  over 
her  housekeeping  accounts, — never  a 
more  exact  controller  than  she, — Bessy 
was  indulging  herself  with  a  look  at 
the  morning's  paper. 

"  Janet,  I  am  going  to  Broomhead." 

Janet,   who   had   been    adding   up 

some  figures,  marked  down  the  sum 

total,  before  she  turned  to  her  brother. 

II  Have  you  had  news  ?  Not  another 
dispatch !" 

"I  have  had  a  letter  from  Margery," 
said  Thomas,  sitting  down  for  an 
instant  near  the  table,  and  producing 
the  letter.  "I  shall  start  at  once, 
Janet,  and  not  wait  for  Saturday." 

The  remarks  of  the  two  sisters  on 
the  letter  were  very  different.  "  He 
never  ivill  reach  home  alive,"  said 
Janet,  in  a  low  tone,  in  acquiescence 
with  the  one  remark  which,  of  all  the 
rest,  took  most  hold  upon  her. 

"  Thomas,  go  yo\i,  and  bring  him 
straight  off  at  once,"  said  practical 
Bessy.  "  If  papa  has  this  strong 
wish  to  be  back,  it  is  not  to  be  toler- 
ated that  he  must  give  it  up  to  the 
whims  of  my  lady.  Never  was  such 
a  thing  heard  of  in  these  enlightened 
days,  as  for  a  man  to  be  under  petti- 
coat government  to  that  extent.  As 
good  constitute  him  a  prisoner  at 
once.     If  he  desires  to  return  to  the 


Folly,  he  shall  return.  We  know 
that  in  illness  there's  no  place  like 
home. 

Janet  shook  her  head.  "  He  cannot 
come  home,  Bessy.  Ashlydyat  is  his 
home  ;  not  the  Folly." 

"  At  any  rate,  he  will  be  closer  to 
it  at  the  Folly  than  he  is  at  Broom- 
head,"  was  Bessy's  answer. 

The  railway-station  nearest  to 
Broomhead,  was  three  miles  distant 
from  it,  road-way :  but  there  was  a 
shorter  cut  across  some  fields — bear- 
ing past  the  house  of  that  Mr.  Sandy 
Bray,  if  you  are  curious  to  know — 
which  reduced  it  to  less  than  two. 
It  was  one  of  those  rural  stations  so 
little  frequented,  that  travelers  were 
tempted  to  ask  why  it  was  built. 
Such  a  thing  as  a  fly,  for  hire,  or  an 
omnibus,  had  never  yet  been  seen  at 
it  at  mid-day :  you  may  therefore 
judge  what  chance  Thomas  Godolphin 
had  of  either,  getting  there,  as  he  did, 
at  midnight.  He  was  the  only  pas- 
senger to  descend,  and  the  train  went 
shrieking  on.  The  man,  who  lived 
in  the  one-roomed  cottage  close  by, 
and  was  called  the  station-master, 
appeared  to  be  the  only  official  to  re- 
ceive him, — a  man  who  had  been 
drafted  thither  from  one  of  the  English 
lines. 

"  For  Broomhead,  sir  ?"  he  ques- 
tioned, recognizing  the  traveler. 

"  Yes.  Do  3rou  happen  to  know 
how  Sir  George  Godolphin  is  ?" 

"He -looks  rare  and  poorly,  sir. 
He  was  past  here  in  his  carriage  to- 
pay.  Huddled  up  in  a  corner  of  it, 
as  if  he  was  cold,  or  else  hadn't  got 
the  strength  to  sit  up.  Her  lad}~ship 
was  inside  with  him." 

"  There's  no  porter  about,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"He  has  been  gone  this  two  hours, 
sir.  I'd  offer  to  carry  your  luggage 
myself,  but  I  shall  have  the  up  ex- 
press by  in  half  an  hour.  I  shut  up 
for  the  night  then." 

"I  would  not  trouble  you  for  so 
trifling  a  matter,  were  you  at  liberty, 
at  this  hour,"  replied  Thomas  Godol- 
phin. 

He  took  up  his  portmanteau  him- 


112 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


self, — a  small  thing  not  much  larger 
than  what  the  French  would  call  a 
petit  sac-de-nuit,  containing  little  be- 
sides a  clean  shirt  and  his  shaving 
tackle, — and  started,  bending  his  steps 
not  along  the  road,  but  across  it  to 
the  stile. 

"  I'd  not  take  the  field  way  to-night, 
sir,  if  I  were  you,"  said  the  man  from 
the  station-door.  "  The  road  is  the 
safest." 

"  Why  is  it  ?"  asked  Thomas  Godol- 
phin. 

"  There's  a  nasty  bit,  the  field  way, 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  afore  you  come 
to  Bray's.  Anybody,  not  knowing  it 
well,  might  take  the  wrong  turning, 
and  go,  head-first,  into  the  dam." 

"  But  I  do  know  it  well,"  said  Thomas 
Godolphin.  "  And  the  night  is  light 
enough  for  me  to  distinguish  the 
turnings." 

The  station-master  looked  up  at  the 
skies, — if  that's  not  speaking  figura- 
tively, for  he  could  see  nothing  but 
fog:  a  light,  hazy  mist — not  a  dark 
one — which  seemed  likely  to  turn  to 
rain.  He  said  no  more,  save  a  good- 
night, sir,  and  Thomas  Godolphin 
walked  on,  hesitating  for  a  moment 
between  the  two  roads,  and  then  turn- 
ing decisively  to  that  of  the  fields,  as 
if  some  hidden  impulse  impelled  him. 
Perhaps  it  did. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  night,  a 
pleasant  time,  or  a  pleasant  way :  and 
Thomas  Godolphin,  as  he  sped  on, 
began  to  think  he  should  have  done 
well  to  telegraph  his  intended  journey 
from  Prior's  Ash  to  Broomhead,  that 
they  might  have  sent  a  conveyance  to 
await  him  at  the  station.  Regrets 
were  of  no  use  now,  and  he  trudged 
along,  taking  two  steps  forward  and 
slipping  one  back,  for  the  ground  in 
places  was  wet  and  slippery.  It  was 
a  peculiar  night.  There  was  no 
moon  ;  there  were  no  stars  ;  no  skies 
in  fact  to  be  seen  at  all,  as  you  have 
heard ;  and  yet  the  night  was  light. 
The  haze  itself  seemed  to  cast  a  light : 
it  was  not  near  the  earth,  not  sur- 
rounding Thomas  Godolphin  ;  but  ap- 
peared to  be  far   away,  like   a  gauzy 


curtain  shrouding  the  heavens  and 
the  horizon. 

What  were  Thomas  Godolphin's 
thoughts  bent  upon  ?  Need  you  ask  ? 
For  some  time  to  come,  days  and 
weeks  and  months,  they  must  run 
chiefly  on  her  who  had  left  him.  He 
remembered  his  last  arrival  at  Broom- 
head  :  he  remembered  his  thoughts  as 
he  had  walked  from  the  station  like 
he  was  doing  now ;  though  then  it 
had  been  by  daylight.  His  thoughts 
had  been  of  Ethel,  and  his  coming 
marriage  ;  his  thoughts  had  been  of 
that  farewell  kiss  which  she  had 
pressed  upon  his  lips.  Now — now  he 
must  only  think  of  her  as  one  of 
heaven's  angels. 

He  lifted  his  hat  to  wipe  his  brow, 
and  then  changed  his  load  to  the 
other  hand.  He  was  coming  to  the 
dam  now.  He  could  hear  its  waters. 
Go  carefully,  Thomas  Godolphin  1  A 
few  steps  down  that  dark  turning, 
and  you  might  never  be  heard  of 
more.  But  he  knew  the  way,  and 
the  night  was  light,  and  he  bore  on 
his  proper  course,  and  the  dangerous 
turn  was  passed. 

A  little  way  farther  on,  and  he 
could  discern  the  outline  of  Bray's 
cottage  in  the  distance.  A  light 
burnt  in  one  of  the  windows,  and  he 
wondered  who  was  ill.  Probably 
Margery's  sister.  It  was  a  diversion 
to  his  own  sad  reflections.  Next  he 
became  absorbed  in  thoughts  of  his 
father.  How  should  he  find  him  ? 
Ideas,  we  all  know,  assume  the  color- 
ing of  surrounding  associations,  and 
Thomas  Godolphin,  in  that  solitary 
midnight  hour,  grew  to  take  a  more 
sombre  view  of  the  news  contained  in 
Margery's  letter  than  he  had  hitherto 
done.  It  is  wonderful  how  circum- 
stances affect  us  !  In  the  broad  light 
of  day,  walking,  for  instance,  as  he 
had  done  previously  to  Broomhead, 
apprehensions  would  not  have  come 
over  him.  Now  he  pictured  his 
father  (by  no  will  of  his  own  :  the 
scenes  rose  up  uncalled)  as  lying  ill, 
perhaps  dying.  Perhaps  even  then  a 
telegraphic  message  to  him  might  be 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT. 


113 


on  its  road  to  Prior's  Ash  I  Tcr- 
haps^ 

A  shrill  scream  right  over  his  head, 
and  Thomas  Godolphin  positively 
started.  It  proceeded  from  some 
night-bird  that  had  dived  down  upon 
him  and  now  flew  onwards,  flapping 
its  wings.  That  superstitious  Mar- 
gery would  have  called  it  an  evil 
omen. 

Thomas  Godolphin  followed  it  with 
his  eyes,  speculating  upon  what  bird 
it  could  be.  It  looked  like  a  seagull ; 
had  screamed  like  one  :  but  the  sea 
was  far  off,  and,  if  it  was  one,  it  must 
have  come  a  long  distance. 

Back  it  came  again,  and  dived  down 
as  before, — seemed  to  dive  down  close 
upon  his  head,  like  those  ugly  leather- 
winged  bats  will  do.  Thomas  Godol- 
phin did  not  like  it,  and  he  wished  the 
portmanteau  in  his  hand  had  been  a 
gun.  "  Nasty  screaming  things  !"  he 
ejaculated.  "  I  wonder  what  good 
these  restless  night-birds  do,  save  dis- 
turb from  sleep  any  worn-out  mortal, 
who  may  be  within  hearing  ?" 

Scenes  of  the  recent  past  rose  up 
before  him, — the  dark  sombre  scenes  in 
which  he  had  been  an  actor.  The 
ominous  Shadow  of  Ashlydyat,  strik- 
ing on  his  sight  as  he  turned  the  ash- 
trees,  the  night  of  his  previous  sum- 
mons to  Broomhead:  the  dead  face 
of  Ethel  lying  on  her  bed:  the  remin- 
iscence of  the  funeral  scene ;  of  his 
walking  away  from  it  with  the  dull 
sound  of  the' earth  falling  on  her  coffin 
smiting  his  ears, — none  of  them  pleas- 
ant things  to  recall  at  that  particular 
hour.  Why  should  they  have  come 
to  him  ? 

"  What  business  had  they  there  at 
such  a  time  ?" 

Drive  them  away,  he  could  not. 
But  neither  did  he  try.  They  served 
to  make  doubly  sad,  doubly  ominous, 
his  new  fears  for  his  father.  He  knew 
how  precarious  was  Sir  George's  life. 
What  if  he  were  then  dying !  Nay, 
what  if  it  were  the  very  moment  of 
his  departure  ? — if  he  were  dead  ?  hav- 
ing called  upon  his  children,  upon 
him,  Thomas,  in  vain  ? 

That  odious  bird  once  more  !  It 
1 


flew  over  his  head  with  a  shriek 
shriller  than  the  last.  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin was  at  that  moment  within  a 
few  paces  of  a  stile  which  lay  in  his 
path.  He  turned  his  head  round  to 
look  after  the  bird,  not  slackening  his 
pace,  putting  out  his  hand  before  him 
to  save  himself  from  knocking  violently 
again  the  stile.  The  hand  came  in 
contact  with  the  stile,  and  Thomas  let 
it  rest  momentarily ;  his  head  was 
turned  still,  watching  the  bird,  which 
was  then  flying  round  and  round, 
making  fierce  circlets  in  the  air. 

But  he  could  not  stop  there  all 
night,  staring  at  the  bird,  and  he 
turned  sharply  round  to  cross  the 
stile.  Placing  one  foot  on  its  lower 
rail,  he 

What  made  Thomas  Godolphin  start 
back  as  if  he  had  been  shot  ?  Who 
and  what  was  that,  standing  on  the 
other  side  of  the  stile  fixedly  gazing 
at  him  ?  A  tall,  shadow}^,  upright 
form,  all  dark,  bearing  the  unmis- 
takable features  of  Sir  George  Godol- 
phin. 

Will  you — you  strong,  practical, 
unimaginative  men  of  the  world — for- 
give Thomas  Godolphin  if  in  that  one 
brief  moment  the  wild  superstitions 
instilled  into  his  mind  in  childhood 
were  allowed  their  play  ?  Forgive 
him,  or  not,  it  was  the  fact.  In  im- 
agination, but  the  instant  before,  he 
had  seen  his  father  lying  upon  his 
bed,  the  soul  parting  from  the  body : 
and  Thomas  Godolphin  as  much  be- 
lieved what  he  now  saw  before  him 
was  his  father's  spirit,  as  that  he  him- 
self was  in  existence, — the  spirit  ap- 
pearing to  him  in  the  moment  of  its 
departure.  His  flesh  turned  cold,  and 
the  drops  gathered  on  his  brow. 

"My  son,  can  it  be  you  ?" 

Thomas  Godolphin  came  out  of  his 
folly,  and  grasped  his  father.  That  it 
was  real  flesh  and  blood  which  yielded 
to  his  arms,  he  now  knew :  but  per- 
haps the  surprise  that  it  should  be  so, 
was  even  greater  than  the  other  emo- 
tion. Sir  George  Godolphin  there  ! 
at  that  midnight  hour !  nearly  a  mile 
from  his  heme  !  and  bareheaded  !  Was 
it  really  Sir  George  ?     Thomas  Go- 


114 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


dolphin  rubbed  his  eyes  and  thought 
he  himself  must  have  taken  leave  of 
his  senses. 

"  My  father,  my  dear  father,  what 
are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"  I  thought  I'd  go  to  the  station, 
Thomas,  and  see  about  a  special 
train.  I  must  go  to  Ashlydyat  to 
die." 

Thomas  got  over  the  stile.  The 
tone,  the  manner,  the  words  altogether 
had  betrayed  to  him  an  unhappy  fact, 
— that  his  father's  mind  was  not  in  a 
state  of  perfect  sanity.  He  trembled 
for  his  health,  too.  It  was  a  cold 
raw  night,  sloppy  under  foot  in  places, 
and  here  was  Sir  George  in  his  black 
evening  costume,  his  white  waistcoat, 
without  so  much  as  an  overcoat 
thrown  on, — he,  who  had  only  been 
out  since  the  last  fainting-fit  in  a 
close  carriage,  and  then,  well  wrapped 
up. 

"Where  is  you  hat,  father?" 

The  old  knight  lifted  his  hand  to 
his  head  and  felt  it,  as  if  he  had  not 
known  that  his  hat  was  away.  "  I 
must  have  come  out  without  it, 
Thomas,"  he  said.  "What  was  that 
noise  over  there  ?"  he  continued, 
pointing  above  the  stile  to  the  way 
Thomas  had  come,  his  frame  shaking 
all  over  with  cold,  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  think  it  was  a  seagull.  Or 
some  screeching  night-bird." 

"  I  could  not  get  over  the  stile, 
Thomas.  The  walk  seemed  to  have 
taken  the  strength  out  of  me.  How 
did  you  come  here  ?  I  thought  you 
were  at  Prior's  Ash." 

Thomas  Godolphin  was  busy.  He 
had  taken  off  his  greatcoat,  and  was 
putting  it  on  his  father,  buttoning  it 
up  carefully.  A  less  man  in  size  than 
Sir  George,  it  did  not  fit  very  well : 
but  Sir  George  had  shrunk.  The  hat 
fitted  better. 

"  But  you  have  not  got  a  hat 
yourself!"  said  Sir  George,  survey- 
ing his  son's  head,  when  he  had  sub- 
mitted in  patient  silence  to  the  dress- 
ing. 

"  I  don't  want  one,"  replied  Thomas. 
"The  night-air  will  not  hurt  me." 
Nevertheless,  all  the  way  to  Broom- 


head,  he  was  looking  on  either  side, 
if  perchance  he  might  come  upon  Sir 
George's,  lying  in  the  road. 

Thomas  drew  his  father  close,  to 
support  him  on  his  arm,  and  they 
commenced  their  walk  to  the  house. 
Not  until  then  did  Thomas  know  how 
very  weak  his  father  was.  Stooping, 
shivering,  tripping  with  every  other 
step,  it  appeared  impossible  that  he 
could  walk  back :  the  wonder  Avas, 
how  he  had  walked  there. 

Thomas  Godolphin  halted  in  dis- 
may. How  was  he  to  get  his  father 
home  ?  Carry  him,  he  could  not :  it 
was  beyond  his  physical  strength. 
The  light  in  Bray's  window  suggested 
a  thought  to  him. 

"  Father,  I  think  you  had  better 
go  to  Bray's,  and  stay  there  while  I 
send  for  your  hand-chair.  You  are 
not  able  to  walk." 

"  I  won't  go  to  Bray's,"  returned 
the  knight,  with  a  touch  of  fiery  ve- 
hemence. "  I  don't  like  Bray,  and  I 
will  not  put  my  foot  inside  his  thresh- 
old. Besides  it's  late,  and  my  lady 
will  miss  us." 

He  pressed  on  somewhat  better  to- 
wards home,  and  Thomas  Godolphin 
saw  nothing  else  that  could  be  done 
save  to  press  with  him  and  give  him 
all  the  help  in  his  power.  "My  clear 
father,  you  should  have  waited  until 
the  morning,"  he  said,  "  and  have  gone 
out  then." 

"  But  I  wanted  to  see  about  a  train. 
Thomas,"  remonstrated  the  knight. 
"  And  I  can't  do  it  in  the  day.  She 
will  not  let  me.  When  we  drive  past 
the  railway-station,  she  won't  get  out, 
and  won't  let  me.  Thomas,  I  want 
to  go  back  to  Ashlydyat." 

"  I  have  come  to  take  you  back,  my 
dear  father." 

"  Ay,  ay.  And  mind  you  are  firm 
when  she  says  I  must  not  go  because 
of  the  fever.  The  fever  will  not  hurt 
me,  Thomas.  I  can't  be  fiftn.  I  am 
grown  feeble,  and  people  take  my  will 
from  me.  Y"ou  are  my  first-born  son, 
Thomas." 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  must  be  firm  for  me,  I 
say." 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


115 


"  I  will  be,  father." 

"This  is  a  rough  road,  Thomas  !" 

"  No  :  it  is  smooth  :  and  I  am  glad 
that  it  is.     But  you  are  tired." 

The  old  knight  bent  his  head  as  if 
picking  his  steps.  Presently  he  lifted 
it  again  : 

"  Thomas,  when  do  they  quit  Ash- 
lvdvat  ?» 

"Who,  sir?  TheYerralls?  They 
have  not  had  notice  yet." 

Sir  George  stopped.  He  drew  up 
his  head  to  his  full  height,  and  turned 
it  on  his  son.  "Not  had  notice? 
When,  then,  do  I  go  back  ?  I  won't 
go  to  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly.  I  must 
go  to  Ashlydyat." 

"  Yes,  sir," said  Thomas,  soothingly. 
"  I  will  see  about  it," 

The  knight,  satisfied,  resumed  his 
walk.  "  Of  course  you  will  see  about 
it.  You  are  my  son  and  heir,  Thomas. 
I  depend  upon  you." 

They  pursued  their  way  for  some 
little  time  in  silence,  and  then  Sir 
George  spoke  again,  his  tone  a  hushed 
one.  "Thomas,  I  have  put  on  mourn- 
ing for  her.  I  mourn  her  as  much  as 
you  do.  And  you  did  not  get  there 
in  time  to  see  her  alive  !" 

"  Not  in  time.  "  No,"  replied  Thom- 
as, looking  hard  into  the  mist  over- 
head. 

"  I'd  have  come  to  the  funeral, 
Thomas,  if  she  had  let  me.  But  she 
was  afraid  of  the  fever.  George  got 
there  in  time  for  it  ?" 

"Barely." 

"When  he  came  back  to  Broom- 
head  and  heard  of  it,  he  was  so  cut 
up,  poor  fellow.  Cut  up  for  your 
sake,  Thomas.  He  said  he  should  be 
in  time  to  follow  her  to  the  grave  if  he 
started  at  once,  and  he  went  off  then. 
Thomas",  —  dropping  his  voice  still 
lower,  — "  whom  shall  you  take  to 
Ashlydyat  now  ?" 

"  My  sisters." 

"  Nay.  But  as  your  wife  ?  You 
will  be  replacing  Ethel  sometime." 

"  I  shall  never  marry  now,  father." 

At  length  Broomhead  was  reached. 
Thomas  held  open  the  gate  of  the 
shrubbery  for  his  father,  and  guided 
him  through  it. 


"  Shall  we  have  two  engines, 
Thomas  ?" 

"  Two  engines,  sir  !     What  for  ?" 

"  They'd  take  us  quicker,  you  know. 
This  is  not  the  station  !"  broke  forth 
Sir  George,  in  a  sharp,  wailing  tone 
of  complaint  as  they  emerged  beyond 
the  shrubbery,  and  the  house  stood  in 
face  of  them.  "  Oh,  Thomas,  you 
said  you  were  taking  me  to  Ashly- 
dyat !     I  cannot  die  away  from  it !" 

Thomas  Godolphin  stood  nearly 
confounded.  His  father's  discourse — 
the  greater  part  of  it  at  any  rate — had 
been  so  rational,  that  he  had  begun  to 
hope  he  was  mistaken  as  to  his  weak- 
ness of  mind.  "My  dear  father,  be 
at  rest,"  he  said:  "we  will  start,  if 
you  like,  with  morning  light.  But  to 
go  now  to  the  station  would  not  for- 
ward us  :  it  is  by  this  time  closed  for 
the  night." 

They  found  the  house  in  a  state  of 
commotion.  Sir  George  had  been 
missed,  and  servants  were  out  search- 
ing for  him.  Lady  Godolphin  re- 
garded Thomas  with  all  the  eyes  she 
possessed, — thunderstruck  at  his  ap- 
pearance there  and  then.  "  What 
miracle  brought  you  here  ?"  she  ut- 
tered. 

"  No  miracle,  Lady  Godolphin.  I 
am  thankful  that  I  happened  to  come. 
What  might  have  become  of  Sir  George 
without  me  I  know  not.  I  expect 
he  would  have  remained  at  the  stile 
where  I  found  him  till  morning,  and 
might  have  caught  his  death." 

"  He  will  catch  that  speedily  if  he 
is  to  decamp  out  of  the  house  at  mid- 
night in  this  mad  manner,"  peevishly 
rejoined  my  lady. 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

THE   LAST   JOURNEY. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Godol- 
phin.    That  is  not  the  ernes tion." 

"  Not  the  question  !"  reiterated  Lady 
Godolphin.  "  I  say  that  it  is  the  ques- 
tion.     The  question  is  whether  Sir 


116 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


George  is  better  and  safer  here  than 
he  would  be  at  Prior's  Ash.  And  of 
course  he  is  so." 

"I  think  not,"  replied  Thomas* Go- 
dolphin,  quietly.  "  He  would  be  equally 
well  at  Prior's  Ash, — equally  safe,  as 
I  believe  and  trust.  And  the  anxiety 
to  be  there  which  has  taken  hold  of 
his  mind  has  grown  too  strong  to  be 
repressed.  The  detaining  him  here 
against  his  wish  would  make  him  ill, 
Lady  Godolphin, — not  the  return  to 
his  home." 

"  Prior's  Ash  is  an  unhealthy  place 
just  now." 

"  It's  unhealthiness  has  passed.  The 
last  to  be  attacked  was — was  Ethel. 
And  you  are  aware  that  the  time 
since  then  may  be  counted  by  weeks." 

"  Sir  George  is  partially  childish," 
pursued  Lady  Godolphin.  "  You  may 
see  for  yourself  that  he  is.  It  would 
be  most  unreasonable,  it  would  be 
ridiculous  to  take  notice  of  his  whims. 
Look  at  his  starting  out  of  the  house 
to-night  with  nothing  on,  and  roaming 
a  mile  or  two  away  in  the  dark  !  Is 
that  a  proof  of  sanity  ?" 

"  It  is  a  proof  how  fixedly  his  mind 
is  bent  upon  returning  home,"  replied 
Thomas  Godolphin.  "  He  was  en- 
deavoring, as  I  have  already  informed 
you,  Lady  Godolphin,  to  make  his 
way  to  the  railway-station." 

"I  shall  have  him  watched  in  fu- 
ture," said  she. 

"Lady  Godolphin,"  he  resumed, 
speaking  in  the  calmly  quiet  tone 
which  characterized  him, — unmistaka- 
bly firm  now  in  the  midst  of  its  court- 
eousness, — "I  am  here  by  the  desire 
of  my  father  to  accompany  him  back 
to  Prior's  Ash, — I  may  almost  say  to 
convey  him  back  :  for  I  fear  he  can  no 
longer  boast  much  power  of  his  own 
in  any  way.  The  last  words  I  said 
to  him  before  entering  were  that  he 
should  start,  if  it  pleased  him,  with 
morning  light.  I  must  keep  my 
promise." 

"  Do  you  defy  me,  Thomas  Godol- 
phin ?" 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  do  so.  I  have 
no  wish  to  abate  a  particle  of  the  re- 
spect and  consideration  due  to  you  as 


my  father's  wife.  At  the  same  time, 
my  duty  to  him  is  paramount :  I  hold 
it  more  sacred,  Lady  Godolphin,  than 
any  earthly  thing.  He  has  charged 
me,  by  my  duty,  to  see  him  back  to 

Ashly to  Prior's  Ash  :  and  I  shall 

do  so." 

"  You  would  see  him  back,  I  sup- 
pose, if  Prior's  Ash  were  full  of  snakes 
and  scorpions  ?"  returned  my  lady, 
somewhat  losing  her  temper. 

" It  is  full  of  neither.  Nothing  is 
there,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  that  can 
harm  Sir  George.  Can  you  urge  a 
single  good  reason  why  he  should  not 
return  to  it,  Lady  Godolphin  ?" 

The  delicate  bloom  on  my  lady's 
cheeks  was  surely  heightened, — or  did 
Thomas  Godolphin  fancy  it  ?  "  But 
what  if  I  say  he  shall  not  return?" 
she  asked,  her  voice  slightly  raised. 

"  I  think  you  will  not  say  it,  Lady 
Godolphin,"  he  replied.  "It  is  Sir 
George's  wish  to  go  to  Prior's  Ash, 
and  it  is  my  province  to  see  that  wish 
carried  out, — as  he  has  requested  me. 
Much  as  I  desire  to  respect  your  feel- 
ings and  any  plans  you  may  have 
formed,  they  cannot  weigh  with  me 
in  this  case.  There  is  no  nececsity 
whatever  for  your  returning  home, 
Lady  Godolphin,  unless  you  choose 
to  do  so  ;  but  Sir  George  will  leave 
for  it  to-morrow." 

"  And  you  boast  that  you  do  not 
defy  me  !"  uttered  Lady  Godolphin, 
with  a  short  laugh.  "  I  would  use 
foi'ce  to  keep  him  in  this  house  rather 
than  he  should  go  out  of  it  against  my 
will." 

"  Force  ?"  repeated  Thomas  Godol- 
phin, looking  at  her  for  an  explana- 
tion.    "  What  sort  of  force  ?" 

"  Physical  force,"  she  answered, 
putting  on  a  degree  of  fair  suavity. 
"  I  would  command  the  servants  to 
bar  his  egress." 

A  faint  smile  crossed  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin's  lips.  "  Do  not  try  that,  Lady 
Godolphin,"  he  replied  in  the  respect- 
ful manner  of  one  who  tenders  earnest 
advice.  "I  should  be  sorry  indeed  to 
oppose  publicly  my  authority  to  yours. 
You  know  the  servants  have,  most  of 
them,  grown  old  in  our  service, — and 


THE     SHADOW     OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


117 


that  may  be  their  excuse  ;  but  there 
is  not  one  of  them  but  would  be  obe- 
dient to  the  lifting  of  my  linger  in  the 
cause  of  their  master." 

Lady  Godolphin  was  foiled.  Lady 
Godolphin  had  been  long  aware  that 
she  should  be  foiled  if  it  ever  came 
to  an  encounter  —  strength  against 
strength — between  her  and  Thomas 
Godolphin.  Easy  George  she  could 
manage,  the  Miss  Godolphins  she 
could  put  down,  Sir  George  was  now 
as  a  very  reed  in  her  hands.  But 
Thomas? — he  was  different.  None 
of  them  had  been  so  uniformly  re- 
spectful and  courteous  to  her  as 
Thomas  :  and  yet  she  had  known  that 
he,  of  all  the  rest,  would  not  bend  to 
her  authority  were  any  cause  to  arrive 
why  he  should  not. 

She  sat  biting — as  far  as  she  dared 
—her  rose-tinted  lips  ;  she  lifted  one 
hand  and  toyed  with  her  perfumed 
ringlets;  she  opened  a* fan  which  lay 
at  her  side  and  gently  fanned  herself ; 
she  glanced  at  the  still  countenance 
of  Thomas  Godolphin  and  knew  that 
she  must  give  up  the  game.  To  give 
it  up  with  a  good  grace  was  essential 
to  her  future  rule,  and  that  she  was 
now  making  up  her  mind  to  do.  It 
would  never  do  either  for  her  to  stand 
in  the  hall  on  the  morrow  morning, 
call  the  servants  around  her  and  say, 
"It  is  my  pleasure  that  Sir  George 
does  not  leave  this  place  for  Prior's 
Ash :  keep  him  in.  Hold  him  in ; 
lock  the  door ;  use  any  means  neces- 
sary,"— while  there  was  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin at  hand  to  lift — as  he  had 
phrased  it — his  linger  and  say,  "  It  is 
my  pleasure  that  my  father  does  go  to 
Prior's  Ash.  Stand  back  while  he 
passes."  Lady  Godolphin  was  no 
simpleton,  and  she  could  hazard  a 
shrewd  guess  as  to  which  of  the  two 
would  be  obeyed.  So  she  sat, — bring- 
ing her  mind  to  make  a  virtue  of  ne- 
cessity and  throw  up  the  plea.  In 
point  of  fact  she  had  no  cause  of  ob- 
jection to  Sir  George's  returning  to 
Prior's  Ash  save  that  she  did  not  care 
to  return  to  it  herself.  For  two  reasons : 
one  was  that  she  liked  Broomhead 
best :   the  other,  that  she  could  not 


subdue  yet  her  fears  of  the  fever. 
She  bent  her  head  as  if  examining  the 
chaste  devices  on  her  fan,  and  spoke 
indifferently: 

"  You  must  be  aware  that  my  wish 
to  keep  Sir  George  here  arises  solely 
from  the  state  of  Prior's  Ash.  It 
always  has  been  our  custom  to  spend 
Christmas  there,  amongst  you  all,  and 
I  should  have  had  no  other  thought 
for  this  Christmas,  but  for  the  sick- 
ness which  arose.  Will  you  guaran- 
tee that  it  is  safe  for  him  ?" 

"  Nay,  Lady  Godolphin.  To  '  gua- 
rantee' an  assurance  of  the  sort  would 
be  impossible  at  the  best  of  times. 
I  believe  that  any  fears  you  may  en- 
tertain now  of  the  fever  will  prove 
but  a  bugbear." 

"  The  fever  has  not  been  much  of  a 
bugbear  to  you, "she  exclaimed,  acidity 
in  her  tone. 

"  No,"  he  sadly  answered. 

He  drew  his  chair  from  the  table, 
where  he  had  been  sitting  to  take 
some  refreshment  after  his  journey, 
and  at  that  moment  the  hall  clock 
struck  two. 

"  I  am  keeping  you  up  very  late, 
Lady  Godolphin." 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  change,"  she  an- 
swered. "  The  life  here,  with  Sir 
George  in  his  sick  state,  is  so  exces- 
sively monotonous,  that  a  few  nights 
of  sitting  up  and  days  of  bed,  might 
prove  an  agreeable  variety.  Did  I 
understand  you  rightly, — that  you  in- 
tend to  start  in  the  morning  ?" 

"  If  Sir  George  shall  then  wish  to 
do  so  as  anxiously  as  he  appears 
wish  it  to-night.  Otherwise,  I  will 
not  object  to  delay  it  until  the  follow- 
ing one.  I  cannot  remain  longer : 
business  demands  my  presence  at 
home.  And,"  he  added,  dropping  his 
voice,  "  I  fear  that  speed  is  necessary 
for  my  father's  sake.  If  he  does  not 
go  pretty  soon,  he  may  not  be  able 
to  go  at  all.  It  is  more  than  likely 
we  shall  start  to-morrow." 

"  You  cannot  expect  me  to  be  ready 
in  that  space  of  time." 

"  Certainly  not.  Just  as  you  please, 
Lady  Godolphin." 

Thomas  Godolphin  was  shown  to 


118 


THE     SHADOW     OF     ASIILYDYAT 


his  room.  Margery  waylaid  him  in 
the  corridor  and  entered  it  with 
him.  "  Did  you  get  my  epistle,  Mr. 
Thomas  ?" 

"  It  was  that  which  brought  me 
here  now,  Margery.  Otherwise,  I 
should  not  have  come  until  the  end 
of  the  week." 

"  Then  you  would  have  come  too 
late,  sir.  Yes,  Mr.  Thomas,  I  mean 
what  I  say,"  added  the  woman,  drop- 
ping her  voice  to  a  solemn  tone.  "  By 
dreams  and  signs  and  tokens,  which 
I  have  had •" 

"  Stay,  Margery.  You  know  I  am 
never  very  tolerant  of  your  dreams 
and  signs.     Let  them  rest." 

"  It's  true  you  are  not,"  answered 
Margery,  without  the  least  appear- 
ance of  discomfiture,  "  and  many's 
the  argument  I  would  have  liked  to 
hold  with  you  over  it.  But  you'd 
never  let  me.  When  you  were  a 
young  man,  you'd  laugh  and  joke  it 
down, — just  as  Mr.  George  might  now, 
were  I  so  foolish  as  to  waste  such 
words  upon  him, — and  since  you  got 
older  and  steadier  you  have  just  put 
me  off  as  you  are  doing  at  this  mo- 
ment. Mr.  Thomas,  gifts  are  differ- 
ent. They  are  not  sent  upon  all 
alike :  and  the  Scriptures  says  so. 
One  man'll  see  what  another  can't. 
Isn't  one  able  to  play  the  most  beau- 
tiful music,  and  make  up  the  tunes 
himself  so  as  to  keep  a  whole  play- 
house on  the  listen,  while  another 
can't  tell  one  tune  from  another,  and 
couldn't  write  one  if  it  was  to  save  his 
neck  ?  Don't  one  man  have  a  head 
for  steam-ingens  and  telegraphs  and 
put  'em  together  in  it,  as  if  he  had  got 
a  workshop  inside  of  him  ;  and  an- 
other, his  own  cousin,  maybe,  can't 
tell  a  ingen  when  he  sees  it, — the 
gaby ! — and  couldn't  work  one  out 
himself  if  he  lived  to  be  a  hundred 
years  old?  And  so  with  other  things." 

"Well?"  responded  Thomas  Godol- 
phin, — for  Margery  came  to  a  pause, 
as  if  waiting  for  an  answer. 

"  And  do  you  suppose,  Mr.  Thom- 
as, that  it's  not  the  same  with  signs 
and  warnings  ?  It  is  not  given  to  all 
to  see  or  understand  them.     It  is  not 


given,  as  I  take  it,  for  many  to  see  or 
understand  'em.  But  it  is  given  to  a 
few :  and  those  few  know  that  it  is, 
and  they  can  no  moi'e  be  talked  out 
of  knowing  that  it's  truth,  than  they 
can  be  talked  out  of  their  own  life,  or 
of  the  skies  above  'em.  And,  Mr. 
Thomas,  it's  not  only  that  those  who 
have  not  the  gift  can't  see  or  believe  for 
themselves,  but  they  can't  be  brought 
to  believe  that  others  may  :  and  so 
they  laugh  at  and  ridicule  it.  Many 
a  time,  sir,  you  have  laughed  at  me." 

"  You  see  so  many,  you  know,  Mar- 
gery," said  Thomas  Godolphin,  with 
a  slight  smile. 

Margery  looked  at  him.  "  Some- 
times I  have  thought,  sir,  that  you 
are  not  quite  as  unbelieving  as  you 
seem.  But  I  know  it  does  not  do  for 
a  gentlemen,  as  is  high  and  edicated 
and  looked  up  to  in  his  town,  to  say 
he  puts  faith  in  such.  So  I'll  not 
trouble  you,  Mr.  Thomas,  with  the 
tokens- 1  have  had.  I'll  not  tell  you 
that  only  last  night  that  ever  was,  I 
heard  the  footsteps  of " 

"But  you  are  telling  me,  Margery." 

"  That's  just  how  you  take  me  up, 
Mi'.  Thomas !  Well,  sir,  I  say  I'll  not 
bring  forward  them  things,  but  I'll 
speak  of  what  you  may  think  a  surer 
sign, — and  that's  Sir  George's  state 
of  health  " 

"  Ay,  come  !  I  can  follow  vou 
there." 

"  If  ever  death  was  writ  in  any 
body's  face,  it  is  writ  in  his.  And 
that's  another  thing,  Mr.  Thomasj  that 
everybody  can't  see, — death  in  the 
face.  Every  goose  can  see  it  when  it 
comes,  like  they  can  see  a  table  that's 
afore  'em  ;  but  there's  not  many  can 
see  it  when  it  first  casts  its  shadow. 
Did  you  ever  meet  with  anybody  that 
was  away  from  his  own  home,  and 
something  came  over  him,  —  like  a 
fever,  as  may  be  said, — that  he  must 
hasten  back  to  it  to  die  ?"  she  abruptly 
asked. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Thomas 
Godolphin. 

"  Then  I  have,  sir,"  returned  Mar- 
gery. "  And  I  know  that  it's  a  sure 
sign   that   death's  coming,  let   alone 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


119 


other  tokens.  I  don't  mean  just  that 
wish  to  be  back  home  which  anybody 
may  feel  in  sickness  :  that's  nothing 
but  a  sign  of  their  restlessness,  or 
their  wish  for  home  friends  or  home 
comforts :  but  when  it  grows,  as  I 
say,  into  a  fever,  a  disease,  a  impelling 
Avant  that  can't  be  put  down,  which 
keeps  'em  on  the  rack,  a-bed  or  up, 
and  causes  'em  to  steal  out  of  their 
houses  in  a  sort  of  delirium,  believing 
they're  on  the  road  to  it,  and  alto- 
gether disorders  the  brain,  then  it 
can't  be  mistaken.  I  misdoubt  me, 
Mr.  Thomas,  whether  he'll  be  got  back 
in  time,  start  as  soon  as  you  will.  It 
is  not  as  if  he  had  Ashlydyat  to  go  to : 
he'd  be  got  back  then." 

"Why  !  what  difference  can  it  make 
to  his  getting  back,  whether  he  has 
Ashlydyat  to  go  to,  or  Lady  Godol- 
phin's  Folly  ?" 

Margery  shook  her  head.  "  If  he 
had  Ashlydyat  to  go  to, 'he'd  be  spared 
to  reach  it.  When  that  strong  wish 
comes  upon  them  for  their  home,  and 
circumstances  work  so  that  they  can 
start,  they'll  be  let  reach  it.  Him  that 
puts  the  wish  in  'em,  won't  fail  to  carry 
it  out.  But  Sir  George  have  shut  it 
out  of  his  own  power  to  get  back  to 
his  home.  It's  not  my  lady's  Folly 
he's  hankering  after;  its  Ashlydyat. 
And  to  Ashlydyat  he  can't  go.  I  mis- 
doubt me  but  the  struggle  will  be  hard, 
wherever  it  comes,  whether  here  or  at 
my  lady's  Folly:  his  constant  cry  is 
that  he  can't  die  away  from  Ashly- 
dyat," 

To  argue  with  Margery  when  she 
went  into  what  Bessy  Godolphin  was 
apt  to  term  her  "  ghost  crotchets," 
Thomas  knew  to  be  perfectly  useless. 
He  gave  her  a  gentle  hint  that  he 
should  be  glad  to  be  alone  and  get 
to  bed.  Margery  was  pleased  to 
take  it,  stopping  only  to  volunteer 
one  or  two  remarks  on  her  way  to 
the  door. 

"  There'll  be  a  tussle  with  my  lady 
to  get  him  off." 

"  I  do  not  suppose  there  will  be,"  re- 
plied Thomas  Godolphin. 

Margery  nodded  her  head,  as  if  to 
intimate  that  she  adhered  to  her  own 


opinion,  and  resumed.  "When  do  you 
start,  sir  ?" 

"  Probably  to-morrow." 

That  satisfied  her;  and,  wishing 
Thomas  Godolphin  good  night,  she 
withdrew. 

The  house  was  awoke  before  it  was 
yet  dawn.  Sir  George  had  rung  for 
his  servant,  had  rung  for  Margery, 
had  rung  for  the  coachman  to  say  the 
carriage  was  wanted, — in  short,  had 
rung  for  so  many  that  the  whole  house- 
hold was  aroused.  My  lady  came,  in 
fur  slippers,  and  a  warm  dressing-gown, 
to  know  what  the  commotion  could 
mean.  His  son  Thomas  was  there, 
the  knight  answered.  He  was  sure 
he  had  not  dreamt  it,  but  that  Thomas 
had  come  the  previous  night;  he  met 
him  at  the  stile ;  and  Thomas  had 
promised  that  they  should  go  to  Ash- 
lydyat with  morning  light. 

It  appeared  he  was  sane  enough  to 
remember  that.  My  lady  retired, 
grumbling ;  and  Margery  went  and 
called  Thomas. 

When  Thomas  reached  the  room, 
Sir  George  was  nearly  in  the  last  stage 
of  dressing.  His  own  trembling,  <^ager 
fingers  had  done  as  much  towards  it 
as  his  servant.  He  lifted  his  face  with 
its  ashy  hue,  and  its  strange  yearning 
depicted  on  it.  "  Thomas,  my  son, 
I  must  make  haste  back  to  Ashly- 
dyat. You  said  I  should  go  there  to 
die." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  start  immediately, 
father  ?" 

"  You  said  I  should  !"  he  wailed  in 
a  tone  of  imploring  earnestness. 
"You  said  I  should  start  with  morn- 
ing light." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  acquiesced  Thomas. 
And  he  forthwith  busied  himself  to 
hasten  the  preparations. 

The  very  earliest  hour  that  they 
could  leave  the  station  was  a  little  be- 
fore nine.  No  train  stopped  at  it  be- 
fore. This  gave  time  to  get  off  com- 
fortably; though  Sir  George,  in  his 
impatience,  could  with  difficulty  be  in- 
duced to  sit  down  to  breakfast.  My 
lady  came  in  when  they  were  at  the 
meal. 

"  This  is  really  the  most  extraordi- 


120 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


nary  proceeding !"  she  exclaimed, 
speaking  chiefly  to  Thomas  Godol- 
phin.  "  Were  such  a  thing  related  to 
me  as  taking  place  in  another  house, 
I  should  decline  to  give  credence  to  it. 
Are  the  hours  in  the  day  so  few  that 
you  must  choose  the  dusk  of  a  win- 
ter's morning  to  commence  a  jour- 
ney ?" 

Thomas  glanced  at  Sir  George,  as 
if  to  draw  her  attention  to  him.  "  My 
father's  anxiety  will  .  not  let  him 
wait,  Lady  Godolphin.  I  think  it 
well  that  we  should  catch  the  first 
train. " 

"  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  journey 
altogether,"  said  Lady  Godolphin. 
"  If  Sir  George  does  not  get  to  the 
other  end  of  it  alive,  you  will  have  the 
goodness  to  remember  that  I  am  not 
to  blame.  Far  better  that  he  were 
safely  kept  in  his  room  wrapped  up  in 
his  dressing-gown  in  front  of  a  good 
fire." 

"  In  that  case,  my  lady,  I'd  not  an- 
swer for  it  that  he  got  to  the  end  of 
the  day  alive,"  interposed  Margery, 
who  was  in  and  out  of  the  room,  busier 
than  any  of  them.  "  Whether  Sir 
George  stays,  or  whether  he  goes,  he'll 
not  last  many  days,"  she  added,  in  a 
lower  tone  so  that  it  might  not  reach 
her  master's  ear. 

"  If  I  must  have  gone,  I  would  have 
started  at  a  Christian  hour,  Sir 
George,"  resumed  his  wife.  "  Get- 
ting us  all  out  of  bed  as  if  we  were  so 
many  milkmaids  I" 

Sir  George  looked  round,  a  trem- 
bling timidity  in  his  voice  and  man- 
ner,— did  he  fear  that  she  Avould  de- 
tain him  yet  ?  "  You  can  come  after- 
wards, you  know,  my  lady;  we  need 
not  hurry  you.  Oh,  I  must,  I  must 
be  at  Ashlydyat !" 

Thomas  Godolphin  came  to  the  res- 
cue. "  We  shall  be  in  the  carriage  in 
five  minutes,  my  dear  father,  if  you 
will  only  eat  your  breakfast. " 

And  in  little  more  than  five  minutes 
they  were  seated  in  it  on  their  way  to 
the  station,  Sir  George's  own  man  and 
Margery  attending  them.  Margery 
would  have  deemed  it  just  as  possible 
to  cut  herself  in  two,  as  to  be  sepa- 


rated from  her  master  in  his  present 
state. 

They  did  not  get  him  that  night  to 
Prior's  Ash.  Thomas  feared  the  long 
journey  for  him  without  a  break ;  so 
they  halted  for  the  night  about  mid- 
Avay.  Singular  to  say,  Sir  George  did 
not  utter  an  impatient  word  at  the  de- 
lay :  from  the  moment  of  leaving 
Broomhead  he  had  been  perfectly 
calm.  Whether  the  fact  of  his  being 
indisputably  on  the  road  had  soothed 
his  mind  to  tranquillity,  or  whether 
the  strangely  eager  desire  to  be  home 
had  now  left  it,  certain  it  was,  that 
he  had  never  mentioned  Ashlydyat 
throughout  the  day.  Of  one  thing 
there  could  be  no  doubt, — that  he  was 
fast  sinking, — sinking  both  in  mind 
and  body.  Margery  grew  terrified. 
"  Pray  Heaven  we  may  get  him  home," 
she  uttered. 

But  if  she  was  terrified  at  Sir 
George's  state  over  night,  she  had 
more  cause  to  be  so  in  the  morning. 
It  really  appeared  that  life  was  ebbing 
quietly  out  of  him.  "  What  can  we 
do  !"  she  exclaimed  to  Thomas  Godol- 
phin. 

"  We  must  get  him  home,"  was  the 
reply. 

"  Mr.  Thomas,  as  sure  as  that  we 
are  living  here,  he  would  have  been 
dead  before  this,  had  he  stopped  at 
Broomhead  !" 

In  the  dusk  of  the  winter  evening, 
Sir  George  was  at  length  once  more 
at  Prior's  Ash.  Thomas  had  tele- 
graphed of  their  arrival,  and  Janet 
was  at  the  station  in  the  carriage. 
But,  with  the  first  few  words,  Janet 
perceived  that  he  was  perfectly  child- 
ish,— not  only  childish,  but  alarm- 
ingly changed.  Janet  grew  pale  as 
she  turned  to  Margery. 

"  Since  when  ?"  she  murmured. 

"  Since  many  days,  off  and  on  ;  but 
worse  since  we  left  Broomhead  yes- 
terday morning.  He  has  been  sink- 
ing hour  by  hour.  Miss  Janet,  it's 
death." 

They  got  him  to  the  Folly.  And  in 
half  an  hour  the  whole  of  his  family 
were  gathered  round  his  death-bed. 
His  partner,  Mr.  Crosse;  the  surgeon; 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT. 


121 


and  the  rector  of  All  Souls',  were  also 
there. 

He  was  rambling  for  the  most  part 
in  an  unconnected  manner;  bul;  he 
recognized  them  all  individually,  and 
occasionally  gave  utterance  to  col- 
lected, rational  remarks,  as  he  might 
have  done  had  he  been  in  full  posses- 
sion of  his  senses.  He  fancied  him- 
self at  Ashlydyat. 

"  I  could  not  have  died  away  from 
it,  you  know,  Crosse,"  he  suddenly 
cried  to  that  gentleman.  "  Thomas 
was  for  bringing  me  back  to  the  Folly  ; 
but  I  told  him  I  must  go  to  Ashly- 
dyat. If  I  did  let  it  to  strangers, 
they  could  not  keep  me  out  of  it  when 
I  wanted  to  go  there  to  die.  A  Go- 
dolphin  must  not  die  away  from  Ash- 
lydyat. Where's  Cecil  ?"  he  added, 
after  a  pause. 

Poor  Cecil,  the  tears  streaming 
down  her  cheeks,  was  close  to  him, — 
in  his  view  then.     "  I  am  here,  papa." 

The  knight  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
arm, — or  rather  essayed  to  lay  it, — 
but  it  fell  again.  His  thoughts  seemed 
to  pass  to  another  subject. 

"  Crosse,  I  have  been  telling  Thom- 
as that  I  should  not  allow  more  than 
three  per  cent,  on  those  deposits. 
Have  you  seen  Mainwaring  lately  ?" 

Mr.  Snow  stepped  forward  and  ad- 
ministered something  in  a  wine-glass. 
There  appeared  to  be  a  difficulty  in 
swallowing,  and  only  part  of  it  was 
taken.  "  He  grows  more  restless," 
said  the  surgeon,  in  an  undertone. 

Sir  George's  eyes,  as  he  was  slightly 
raised  to  take  the  medicine,  had  fallen 
upon  some  object  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  and  continued  to  be  strained 
on  it.  Who  has  changed  the  po- 
sition of  the  cabinet  ?"  he  exclaimed, 
in  a  stronger  tone  than  he  had  yet 
spoken. 

.  It  caused  them  all  to  turn  and  re- 
gard the  spot.  A  fine  old  cabinet  of 
ebony,  inlaid  with  silver,  stood  oppo- 
site the  bed, — had  stood  there  ever 
since  they  removed  to  Lady  Godol- 
phin's  Folly,  —  transplanted  thither 
from  Ashtydyat.  In  the  latter  house, 
it  had  stood  on  the  right  hand  of  Sir 
George's  bed ;  and  his  memory  had 


evidently  gone  back  to  that.  There 
could  not  be  a  better  proof  that  he  was 
fancying  himself  at  Ashlydyat,  lying 
in  his  own  chamber. 

"  Janet !  Janet !  why  have  you  put 
the  cabinet  there  ?" 

Janet  Godolphin  bent  her  head 
soothingly  over  him.  "  My  dear  father, 
it  shall  be  moved,  if  you  wish  it." 

The  knight  looked  at  her,  looked  at 
her  inquiringly  for  a  moment,  perhaps 
not  recognizing  her.  Then  he  feebly 
essayed  to  look  bej^ond  her,  as  if  her 
head  interposed  between  his  own  view 
and  something  behind.  "Hush,  my 
dear,  I  am  speaking  to  your  mother. 
I  want  to  know  why  she  changed  the 
place  of  the  cabinet." 

"  We  thought  you'd  like  it  there, 
Sir  George,  that  you  could  see  it  best," 
interposed  Margery,  who  knew  better 
than  most  of  them  how  to  deal  with 
the  sick.  "I'll  get  it  put  back  be- 
fore to-morrow  morning." 

This  satisfied  him,  and  he  lay  foi 
a  few  minutes  still.  They  thought 
he  would  sleep.  Presently  his  eyes 
opened  again,  and  they  rested  on 
George. 

"  George,  where's  Charlotte  ?" 

"  Who,  sir  ?"  demanded  George, 
somewhat  taken  aback  at  the  question. 
"  Do  you  mean  Charlotte  Pain  ?  She 
is  at — she  is  not  here." 

"  Are  you  married  yet  ?" 

"  Oh  no,"  said  George,  hastily,  while 
several  pairs  of  wondering  eyes  were 
directed  towards  him, — and  those  of 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Hastings  were  of  the 
number.  "  Time  enough  for  that, 
father." 

"  George,"  next  came  the  words, 
in  a  hollow  whisper  this  time,  "  don't 
let  her  die  as  Ethel  did." 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  replied 
George,  speaking  without  any  serious 
meaning,  save  that  of  humoring  his 
father. 

"And  don't  let  Verrall  go  off  the 
bargain  with  the  money.  He  is  keen 
that  way ;  but  he  has  no  right  to 
touch  Charlotte's.  If  he  does Bes- 
sy, is  Jekyl  dead  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  papa,"  said  Bessy,  sup- 
pressing her  tears  as  she  caressed  her 


122 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLJDYAT. 


father's  hand :  it  was  in  stooping  to  do 
this  that  the  knight  had  observed  her. 
"  Jekyl  is  well  and  hearty  yet ;  and  he 
asked  after  you  to-day.  He  heard  you 
were  coming  home." 

"  Ay  !  all  well  and  hearty  but  me. 
But  it  is  the  will  of  God  to  take  me, 
and  he  knows  what  is  best.  Where's 
Thomas  ?" 

"  I  am  here,  father,"  replied  Thomas 
Godolphin,  leaning  forward  so  that  his 
father  could  see  him. 

Sir  George  tried  to  put  up  his  hand 
with  a  beckoning  gesture.  Thomas 
understood  it ;  he  bent  his  face  close 
to  that  pale  one,  and  clasped  the  nearly 
inanimate  hand  in  his,  listening  reve- 
rently to  the  whisper  that  was  breathed 
so  solemnly. 

"  Thomas,  I  charge  you,  never  quit 
Ashlydyat," 

"  I  will  not,"  replied  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin. 

"  If  you  bring  one  home  to  it,  and 
she  would  urge  you  to  quit  it  till  you 
have  no  will  of  your  own  left,  do  not 
yield  to  it.  Do  not  listen  to  her. 
Break  with  her,  and  let  her  go  forth 
alone,  rather  than  quit  Ashlydyat." 

"  Father,  I  will  never,  of  my  own 
free  will,  quit  Ashlydyat.  I  promise 
you  that,  so  far  as  I  can  hold  control 
over  human  events,  I  will  live  and  die 
in  it." 

Certainly  Sir  George  understood  the 
promise  and  its  meaning.  There  could 
be  no  mistaking  that  he  did,  by  the 
smile  of  content  which  from  that  mo- 
ment overspread  his  countenance, 
lighting  up  with  satisfaction  even  his 
dying  eye.  He  lay  for  a  considerable 
time  still,  and  then  suddenly  called  for 
Margery. 

"You'll  tell  your  mistress  that  we 
can't  root  up  those  bushes,"  he  said, 
as  she  came  near.  "  It's  of  no  use 
trying.  As  fast  as  they  are  got  up 
from  one  place  they  grow  in  another. 
They'll  not  hurt.     Tell  her  I  say  so." 

"  I'd  get  a  lot  o'  quick  lime,  Sir 
George,  and  see  what  that  'ud  do," 
was  Margery's  response;  and  the 
words  brought  up  a  smile  from  one  or 
two  of  her  listeners,  solemn  moment 
though  it  was.    Margery's  maxim  was, 


never  to  contradict  the  dying  ;  but  to 
humor  their  hallucinations.  "Obstinate 
things  them  gorses  be  !"  she  continued. 
"But  never  you  trouble  about  my 
missis,  sir  ;  she  don't  mind  'em." 

The  children,  standing  round  hia 
bed,  knew  quite  well  that  he  was  al- 
luding to  their  mother,  his  first  wife. 
Indeed,  Lady  Godolphin  appeared  to 
have  passed  entirely  from  his  mind. 

Again  he  lapsed  into  silence,  and 
remained  to  all  appearance  in  a  stu- 
por, his  eyes  closed,  his  breathing  om- 
inously slow.  Mr.  Crosse  took  hjs 
departure,  but  the  rector  and  surgeon 
stayed  on  yet.  The  latter  saw  that  the 
final  moment  was  close  at  hand,  and 
he  whispered  to  Miss  Godolphin  that 
she  and  her  sisters  might  be  better 
from  the  room.  "  At  any  rate,"  be 
added,  for  he  saw  the  dissenting,  dis- 
pleased look  which  overspread  her 
face,  "  it  might  be  as  well  to  spare  the 
sight  to  Cecil." 

"  No,"  briefly  responded  Miss  Go- 
dolphin. "  Our  place  is  here."  And 
they  watched  on. 

With  an  impulse  of  strength  sur- 
prising to  see,  Sir  George  suddenly 
rose  up  in  bed,  his  face  working,  his 
eyes  fixed  with  a  yearning  gaze  of  re- 
cognition at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
room, — not  at  the  cabinet  this  time, 
but  at  some  spot  far,  far  up,  through 
the  ceiling,  as  it  appeared.  His  voice, 
startling  in  its  height  and  clearness, 
rang  through  the  air,  and  his  arms 
were  outstretched  as  if  he  were  aboui 
to  fly. 

"  Janet ! — Janet ! — Janet !  Oh,  my 
dear  Janet,  I  am  coming!"  And  he 
fell  back  and  died.  Did  any  thing 
really  appear  to  him,  not  visible  to 
the  mortal  eyes  around  ?  Were  his 
senses,  in  that  moment  of  the  soul's 
departure,  opened  to  a  glimpse  of  the 
world  he  was  about  to  enter  ?  It 
cannot  be  known.  Had  it  been  fic- 
tion it  would  not  have  been  written 
here. 

A  little  later,  the  bell  of  All  Souls' 
Church,  booming  out  over  the  town, 
in  the  night  air,  told  that  Sir  George 
Godolphin  had  passed  away. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


123 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

A   ROW    ON    THE    WATER. 

Lady  Godolpihn  arrived  at  the 
Folly  on  the  night  of  Sir  George's 
death, — not  an  hour  subsequent  to  it. 
Reassured  by  the  knowledge  that  no 
fresh  case  of  fever  had  occurred  since 
the  seizure  of  Ethel  Grame,  that  it 
might,  in  fact,  be  safely  assumed  to 
have  quitted  the  place,  and  believing 
Sir  George's  state  to  be  in  the  last 
degree  critical,  it  had  pleased  my  lady 
to  start  for  Prior's  Ash  on  the  day 
following  the  one  that  Sir  George 
had  started  for  it.  She  reached  it  at 
nine  o'clock.  No  carriage  was  in 
waiting  for  her,  and  she  was  fain  to 
put  up  with  a  fly.  It  did  not  please 
her.  She  was  not  in  a  good  temper, 
and  made  the  want  of  a  carriage  a 
subject  of  discontent.  They  ought  to 
have  divined  that  she  was  coming,  she 
considered,  or  have  sent  one  at  hazard. 

When  she  was  taking  her  seat  in 
it,  the  tolling  out  of  the  death-bell 
was  heard  above  the  bustle  of  the 
station.  As  it  came  sweeping  over 
the  hollow  ground  between  the  church 
of  All  Souls'  and  the  height  on  which 
the  station  was  built,  it  struck  omin- 
ously on  Lady  Godolphin's  ear.  That 
it  was  tolling  for  some  one  of  consid- 
eration, the  hour  proved  :  for  one  of 
little  account,  it  would  have  been  de- 
layed till  morning. 

"  Who  is  dead  ?"  she  quickly  asked 
of  the  porter. 

"My  lady,  it— it "     The  man 

stopped,  hesitating  and  stammering. 
He  was  a  simple,  good-hearted  sort 
of  chap,  and  he  shrank  from  speaking 
out  boldly  of  the  loss  to  Lady  Godol- 
phin 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  ?"  she  sharply 
cried,  in  her  suspense :  for  she  was 
one  who  could  not  bear  the  being 
crossed  or  left  unsatisfied  for  a  single 
moment. 

"I'm  afraid,  my  dear  lady,  it's — it's 
somebody  connected  with  Ashlydyat," 
returned  the  porter,  putting  the  news 
into  the  most  considerate  English  he 
could  call  up 


"  Is  it  Sir  George  Godolphin  ?"  she 
reiterated. 

"Well, we  have  not  rightly  heard  yet 
that  it  is  him  :  but  it  have  been  known 
for  the  past  two  hours  that  every  mo- 
ment was  expected  to  be  his  last," 
was  the  man's  reply.  "In  course, 
hearing  the  bell  ring  out,  our  fears  is 
turned  that  way,  my  lady." 

She  drove  on  with  her  French  maid 
to  the  Folly,  leaving  the  other  ser- 
vants to  follow,  for  she  had  brought 
four  or  five  with  her.  She  knew  as 
well  that  it  must  be  her  husband  who 
was  gone,  as  though  the  information 
had  been  of  the  most  positive  cer- 
tainty :  and  she  chose  to  burst  in  upon 
them  at  the  Folly  with  the  reproaches, 
being  perfectly  aware  in  her  heart 
that  they  had  no  foundation. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  I  washed 
my  hands  of  the  journey  ?"  she  ex- 
claimed to  Thomas  Godolphin.  "You 
see  what  it  has  done  !  It  has  killed 
your  father." 

"  Not  so,  Lady  Godolphin.  I  am 
convinced  that  his  time  was  come, 
whether  here  or  at  Broomhead.  The 
journey  did  him  no  harm  whatever. 
On  the  contrary,  I  think  it  might  have 
been  worse,  taking  all  things  in  conjunc- 
tion, had  he  remained  where  he  was." 

Thomas  quitted  her  presence  as  he 
answered.  He  was  in  no  mood  then 
for  a  controversy  with  Lady  Godol- 
phin. Another  controversy  was  to 
arise  soon :  or,  rather,  a  grievance 
which  my  lady  would  willingly  have 
made  into  one,  had  she  been  able. 

It  was  somewhat  remarkable,  ano- 
ther funeral,  at  which  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin was  again  chief  mourner, 
following  so  closely  upon  Ethel's.  A 
different  sort  of  ceremony,  this :  a  rare 
pageant, — a  pageant  which  was  made 
up  of  plumes  and  trappings  and  de- 
corated horses,  and  carriages  and 
mutes  and  batons,  and  a  line  of  attend- 
ants, and  all  the  other  insignia  of 
the  illustrious  dead.  Ethel  could  be 
interred  simply  and  quietly,  but  Sir 
George  must  be  attended  to  the  grave 
as  the  Godolphin  of  Ashlydyat.  I 
don't  suppose  poor  Sir  George  rested 
anv  better  for  it. 


124 


The  shadow  of  ashlydyat, 


My  lady's  grievance  was  connected 
with  the  will,  which  was  read  upon 
their  return  from  the  funeral.  It  was 
an  equitable  will.  Thomas  had  Ash- 
lydyat ;  George  a  fair  sum  of  money  ; 
the  Miss  Godolphins,  each  her  por- 
tion ;  and  there  were  certain  bequests 
to  servants.  But  little  was  left  to 
Lady  Godolphin  :  indeed,  the  amount 
of  the  bequest  was  more  in  accordance 
with  what  might  be  willed  to  a  friend, 
than  to  a  wife.  But  it  was  not  in 
that  that  the  grievance  lay.  Lady 
Godolphin  had  the  Folly,  she  had 
Broomhead,  and  she  had  an  ample 
income  of  her  own.  She  was*  not  a 
particularly  covetous  woman,  and  she 
had  never  expected  or  wished  that 
Sir  George  should  greatly  take  from 
his  family,  to  add  to  it.  JS~o,  it  was 
not  that :  but  the  contents  of  a  certain 
little  codicil  which  was  appended  to 
the  will.  This  codicil  set  forth  that 
every  article  of  furniture  or  property, 
which  had  been  removed  to  the  Folly 
from  Ashlydyat,  whatever  might  be 
its  nature,  and  down  to  the  minutest 
portion,  should  be  returned  to  Ashly- 
dyat, and  become  the  property  of 
Thomas  Godolphin. 

It  would  pretty  nearly  strip  the 
Folly,  aud  my  lady  was  very  wrath- 
ful. Not  for  the  value  of  the  things  : 
she  sustained  no  injury  there  :  for  the 
codicil  directed  that  a  specific  sum  of 
money  (their  full  value)  should  be 
handed  over  to  Lady  Godolphin  to 
replace  them  with  new  at  the  Folly. 
But  it  struck  upon  her  in  the  light  of 
a  slight,  and  she  chose  to  resent  it  as 
one.  It  was  specially  enjoined  that 
the  things  should  be  placed  at  Ashly- 
dyat in  the  old  spots  where  they  used 
to  stand. 

But  be  wrathful  as  she  might,  grum- 
ble as  she  would,  there  could  be  no 
rebellion  to  it  in  action.  And  Lady 
Godolphin  had  to  bow  to  it. 

The  time  went  on.  Three  months 
glided  by  ;  nay,  four,  for  April  had 
come  in ;  and  positions  were  changed. 
Thomas  Godolphin  was  the  master  and 
tenant  of  Ashlydyat;  Janet  its  acting 
mistress ;  Bessy  and  Cecil  resident 
with  them.     George  had  taken  up  his 


residence  at  the  bank,  with  Margery  to 
look  after  his  comforts,  never  to  remove 
from  it,  as  he  supposed,  unless  Ashly- 
dyat should  fall  to  him.  My  lady  had 
quitted  the  Folly  for  a  permanency, 
(unless  any  whim  should  at  any  time 
send  her  back  to  it,)  and  the  Verralls 
had  taken  it.  It  may  be  said  that 
Lady  Godolphin  gave  up  the  Folly  in 
a  fit  of  pique.  When  she  found  the 
things  were  positively  to  go  out  of  it, 
she  protested  that  she  would  never 
replace  them  with  others  ;  she'd  rather 
pitch  the  money  left  for  the  purpose 
into  the  sea.  She  would  let  it  to  any- 
body that  would  take  it,  and  go  back 
to  Broomhead  forever.  Mr.  Yerrall 
heard  of  this,  and  made  an  application 
to  take  it ;  and  my  lady,  smarting  yet, 
let  it  to  him  off-hand,  accepting  him  as 
a  yearly  tenant.  Whether-she  repented 
or  not,  when  the  deed  was  done  and 
her  anger  had  cooled  down,  could  not 
be  told  :  she  took  her  farewell  and  de- 
parted for  Scotland  without  showing 
signs  of  it.  Many  opined  that  she 
would  come  back  after  a  while  to  the 
place  which  she  had  so  eagerly  and 
fondly  erected.  Perhaps  she  might : 
she  could  get  rid  of  the  Ye  mills  at  any 
time  by  giving  them  due  notice. 

Thomas  had  settled  down  in  his 
father's  place, — head  of  the  bank,  head 
of  all  things,  as  Sir  George  had  been, 
— Mr.  Godolphin  of  Ashlydyat.  Mr. 
George  was  head  of  himself  alone. 
Nobody  of  very  particular  public  note 
was  he ;  but  I  can  tell  you  that  a  vast 
many  more  anxious  palpitations  were 
cast  to  him  from  gentle  bosoms,  than 
were  given  to  inapproachable  Thomas. 
It  seemed  to  be  pretty  generally  con- 
ceded that  Thomas  Godolphin  was 
wedded  to  the  grave  of  Ethel.  Per- 
haps his  establishing  his  sisters  at 
Ashlydyat  as  their  home,  help  to  fur- 
ther the  opinion  and  dash  hopes  ;  but 
very  possible  hopes  from  many  fair 
quarters  were  wafted  secretly  to 
George.  He  would  be  no  mean  prize ; 
with  his  brave  good  looks,  his  excel- 
lent position,  and  his  presumptive 
heirdom  to  Ashtydyat. 

April,  I  say,  had  come  in  :  a  sunny 
April :  and  these  several  changes  had 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


135 


taken  place,  and  the  respective  parties 
were  settled  in  their  new  homes.  It 
went  forth  to  the  world  that  the  Ver- 
ralls  intended  to  give  a  brilliant  fete,  a 
sort  of  house-warming,  as  they  styled 
it;  and  invitations  went  circulating 
far  and  wide.  Amongst  those  favored 
with  one,  were  Mr.  and  the  Miss  Go- 
dolphins. 

Janet  was  indignant.  She  could 
scarcely  bring  herself  to  answer  it 
civilly.  Indeed,  had  she  written  the 
answer  herself,  it  would  have  been 
sharply  dry,  rather  than  civil ;  but 
Bessy  undertook  it.  Cecil,  who  was 
not  less  fond  of  fetes,  and  other  gay 
inventions  for  the  killing  of  time,  than 
are  pretty  girls  in  general,  would  have 
given  her  head  to  go. 

"  Why  would  it  be  so  very  much 
out  of  place,  our  going  ?"  she  inquired 
of  her  sister. 

Janet  looked  at  her  in  astonished 
reproof.  "  Why  1  Do  you  know  what 
it  is,  child  ?  Did  you  hear  the  name 
they  are  giving  it  ?" 

"An  al-fresco  fete,"  responded 
Cecil. 

"  Al-fresco  folly  !"  reproved  Janet. 
"  They  have  been  styling  it  a  house- 
warming.  A  house-warming  !"  she 
repeated,  emphatically.  "A  warming 
for  their  new  home.  Who  died  there, 
Cecil,  and  so  made  way  for  them  to 
come  to  it  ?" 

Cecil  felt  reproved  :  but  the  ardent 
love  of  feting  was  strong  within  her. 
"  There  will  only  be  a  little  out-door 
pleasure  in  the  afternoon,  and  a  quiet 
dance  in  the  evening  Janet,"  she  ar- 
gued in  a  tone  of  supplication. 

"Eh  me,  but  some  of  you  young 
girls  have  light  hearts  !"  uttered  Janet. 
"  Your  father  hardly  cold  in  his  grave, 
and  you  are  hankering  to  dance  horn- 
pipes on  the  very  spot  where  he  died  ! 
Could  they  have  held  any  house- 
warming  there,  girl,  but  for  his 
death  ?" 

"  It  is  very  nearly  four  months  since, 
Janet." 

"If  it  were  twelve  months  since,  it 
would  be  equally  unfitting  for  a  Go- 
dolphin  to  be  seen  there,"  was  the  re- 
ply of  Janet. 


"  I  dare  say  George  will  go,"  per- 
sisted Cecil. 

"George  is  a  heathen,— in  many 
things,"  hastily  replied  Miss  Godol- 
phin,  with  more  asperity  than  she  often 
displayed  ;  for,  though  Janet  was  iirm 
and  cold  in  manner,  she  was  rarely 
sharp.  George  had  somehow  the 
knack  of  falling  out  of  her  good  graces ; 
she  did  not  make  allowance  for  his 
youth  and  his  warm  nature,  so  differ- 
ent from  her  own. 

"  I  should  wear  deep  black ;  and 
I'd  not  stand  up  once  to  dance  if  you 
desired  me  not,"  went  on  Cecil. 

"  Let  the  subject  drop,"  said  Janet. 
"  It  is  impossible  that  I  can  allow  you 
to  be  seen  at  a  house-warming  at  Lady 
Godolphin's  Folly." 

Cecil  looked  rather  gloomy.  Gay 
scenes  of  festivity  were  painting  them- 
selves vividly  in  her  mind ;  costly 
dresses  of  many  colors  appeared  to 
wave  before  her  sight,  their  wearers 
young  and  beautiful  as  she  was  ;  sweet 
sounds  of  music  seemed  to  be  floating 
on  her  ears.  It  was  nearly  beyond 
endurance  that  those  other  pretty  girls 
should  enjoy  all  these  delights  while 
she  was  excluded. 

"  Oh,  Janet !"  she  passionately  ut- 
tered, "  I  should  so  like  to  go  !" 

"  I  have  told  you  to  let  the  subject 
drop,"  replied  Janet,  firmly.  "Are 
you  forgetting  yourself,  Cecil  ?" 

Poor  Cecil,  knowing  all  hope  was 
over,  burst  into  very  undignified  tears. 
Of  course,  Janet,  under  the  peculiar 
circumstances,  was  right,  and  Cecil  was 
wrong :  but  it  was  a  sad  temptation. 

Graceless  George  turned  out  a  hea- 
then in  this,  as  he  did  in  many  other 
things  according  to  Janet.  He  was 
troubled  with  no  compunction  at  all 
upon  the  score,  but  accepted  the  invi- 
tation as  soon  as  it  was  given.  Janet, 
meeting  him  in  the  street,  told  him 
what  she  thought  about  it. 

"  Nonsense  !"  said  George  ;  "I  don't 
look  upon  the  thing  in  that  light. 
What  if  they  do  call  it  a  house-warm- 
ing ?  Let  them  call  it  so.  By  going 
to  it  I  shall  lose  none  of  the  love  I 
bear  my  departed  father ;  or  abate  a 
jot  of  the  reverence  I  give  to  his  mem- 


126 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


ory.  There's  no  reason  whatever  why 
I  should  not  be  present,  Janet;  and 
nobody  with  a  grain  of  common  sense 
would  say  there  was." 

"  I  know  that  you  take  your  own 
way,  George,  and  that  you  will  take 
it,"  returned  Janet.  "  Do  you  think 
any  of  us  but  you  would  be  seen 
there  !  Do  you  suppose  Thomas 
would  ?" 

"  Thomas  never  cared  for  such  things 
much.  And  he'll  not  care  at  all  now 
Ethel's  gone.  I'd  bet  a  sovereign  to 
a  shilling  that  he  never  puts  his  foot 
inside  a  ball-room  again.  But  my 
dancing  -  pumps  have  not  got  their 
soles  worn  off  yet,  Janet." 

Leaving  George  to  his  heathenism 
Miss  Godolphin  continued  her  way. 
Presently  she  encountered  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings. The  conversation  turned  upon 
the  fete, — in  fact,  Prior's  Ash  could 
talk  of  little  else  just  then, — and  Mrs. 
Hastings  mentioned  that  she  had  de- 
clined the  invitation  for  herself  and 
her  daughter. 

Not  that  day,  but  two  or  three  sub- 
sequent to  it,  this  little  bit  of  news 
came  out  to  George  Godolphin.  It 
did  not  afford  him  pleasure.  Were 
the  truth  known,  it  would  be  found 
that  he  had  counted  more  on  the  meet- 
ing Maria  there, — on  her  assistance  to- 
wards wearing  off  the  soles  of  the 
"pumps"  than  on  any  other  human 
being  or  thing.  Decline  the  invita- 
tion !  What  had  possessed  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings? 

Mr.  George  Godolphin  was  determ- 
ined to  know.  Though  not  a  frequent 
vistor  at  the  rectory, — for  he  could 
not  go  much  in  the  teeth  of  such  evi- 
dent discouragement  as  had  latterly 
been  shown  him  by  Mr.  Hastings,  and 
depended  mostly  upon  chance  meet- 
ings in  the  street  for  keeping  in  exer- 
cise his  love-vows  to  Maria, — he  re- 
solved to  go  boldly  down  that  evening. 

Down  he  accordingly  went,  and  was 
shown  into  an  empty  room.  The  rec- 
tor and  Mrs.  Hastings  were  out  the 
servant  said,  and  the  young  ladies 
were  in  the  study  with  the  boys.  She 
would  tell  them. 

Maria  came  to  him.     There  was  no 


mistaking  her  start  of  surprise  when 
she  saw  him,  or  the  rush  of  emotion 
which  overspread  her  face. 

"Who  did  you  think  it  was  ?"  asked 
George. 

"  I  thought  it  was  your  brother. 
She  said  '  Mr.  Godolphin.'  Grace  will 
be  down  in  an  instant." 

"  Will  she  ?"  returned  George. 
"  You  had  better  go  and  tell  her  it's 
Mr.  George,  and  not  Mr.  Godolphin, 
and  then  she  won't  hurry  herself.  I 
am  not  a  favorite  with  Miss  Grace,  I 
fancy. " 

Maria  colored.  She  had  no  excuse 
to  offer  for  the  fact,  and  she  could  not 
say  that  it  was  untrue.  George  stood 
with  his  elbow  on  the  mantel-piece 
looking  down  at  her. 

"  Maria,  I  hear  that  Mrs.  Hastings 
has  declined  to  go  to  the  Folly  on 
Thursday.     What's  that  for  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Maria. 
"  We  do  not  go  greatly  amid  those  ex- 
tensively grand  scenes,"  she  added, 
laughing.  "  Mamma  says  she  always 
feels  as  much  out  of  place  in  them  as 
a  fish  does  out  of  water.  And  I  think 
if  papa  had  his  private  wish  we  should 
never  go  within  a  mile  of  any  thing 
of  the  sort.  He  likes  quiet  social  vis- 
iting, but  not  such  entertainments  as 
the  Verralls  give.  He  and  mamma 
were  speaking  for  a  few  minutes  ovei 
the  invitation,  and  then  she  directed 
Grace  to  write  and  decline  it." 

"  Which  is  an  awful  shame  !"  re- 
sponded George.  "  I  thought  I  should 
have  had  you  with  me  for  a  few  hours 
that  day  at  any  rate,  Maria." 

Maria  lifted  her  eyes.  "  It  had 
nothing  to  do  with  me,  George.  1 
was  not  invited." 

"Not  invited  !"  uttered  George  Go- 
dolphin. 

"  Only  Grace.  '  Mrs.  and  Miss  Hast- 
ings.' " 

"  What  was  that  for  ?"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Why  Avere  you  left  out  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  Maria, 
bending  her  eyelids  and  speaking  with 
involuntary  hesitation.  In  her  heart 
of  hearts  Maria  believed  that  she 
did  know ;  but  the  last  person  she 
would  have  hinted  it  to  was  George 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


127 


Godolpbin.  "  Perhaps,"  she  added, 
"it  may  have  been  an  omission,  an 
oversight?  Or  they  may  have  so 
many  to  invite  that  they  can  only  dis- 
pense their  cards  charily." 

"Moonshine!"  cried  George.  "I 
shall  take  upon  myself  to  ask  Mrs. 
Verrall  why  you  were  left  out." 

"Oh,  George,  pray  don't!" she  ut- 
tered, feeling  an  invincible  repugnance 
to  have  her  name  brought  up  in  any 
such  way.  "Why  should  you  ?  Had 
the  invitation  been  sent  to  me  I  should 
not  have  gone." 

"  It  is  a  slight,"  he  persisted.  "  A 
little  later,  and  let  any  dare  to  show 
slight  to  you.  They  shall  be  taught 
better.  A  slight  to  you  will  be  a 
slight  to  me." 

Maria  looked  at  him  timidly,  and  he 
bent  his  head  with  a  fond  smile.  "I 
shall  want  somebody  to  keep  house 
for  me  at  the  bank  you  know,  Maria. " 

She  colored  even  to  tears.  Mr. 
George  was  proceeding  to  erase  them 
after  his  own  gallant  fashion,  when  he 
was  brought-to  summarily  by  the  en- 
trance of  Grace  Hastings. 

There  was  certainly  no  love  lost 
between  them.  Grace  did  not  like 
George, — George  did  not  like  Grace. 
She  took  her  seat  demurely  in  her 
mother's  chair  of  state  with  every  ap- 
parent intention  of  sitting  out  his 
visit.     So  George  cut  it  short. 

"  What  did  he  come  for  ?"  Grace 
asked  of  Maria  when  the  servant  had 
shown  him  out. 

"  He  came  to  call." 

"  You  appeared  to  be  very  close  in 
conversation  when  I  came  into  the 
room,"  pursued  Grace,  searching  Ma- 
ria with  her  keen  eyes.  "  May  I  ask 
its  purport  ?" 

"Its  purport  was  nothing  wrong," 
said  Maria,  her  cheeks  deepening  un- 
der the  inspection.  "You  question 
me,  Grace,  as  if  I  were  a  child,  and 
you  possessed  a  right  over  me." 

"  Well  ?"  said  Grace,  equably. 
"What  was  he  talking  of?" 

Yielding,  timid,  sensitive  Maria  was 
one  of  the  last  to  resist  this  sort  of 
importunity.  "  We  had  been  talking 
of  the  Verralls  not  including  me  in 


the  invitation.  George  said  it  was  a 
slight." 

"As  of  course  it  was,"  assented 
Grace.  "  And  for  that  fact  alone  I 
am  glad  mamma  sent  them  a  refusal. 
It  was  Charlotte  Pain's  doings.  She 
does  not  care  that  you  should  be 
brought  too  much  into  contact  with 
George  Godolpbin,  lest  her  chance 
should  be  perilled.  Now,  Maria,  don't 
pretend  to  look  at  me  in  that  incredu- 
lous manner  !  You  know  as  well  as 
I  do  that  George  has  a  stupid  liking 
for  you,  or  at  least  acts  as  though  he 
had,  which  naturally  is  not  pleasant 
to  Charlotte  Pain." 

Maria  knew  well  that  Grace  had 
divined  the  true  cause  of  the  neglect. 
She  stood  for  a  few  minutes  looking 
silent  and  humble  :  an  intimation  even 
from  Grace  that  George  "  liked  her" 
jarred  upon  her  refined  sensitiveness 
when  spoken  openly.  But  that  feeling 
was  almost  lost  in  the  dull  pain  which 
the  hint  touching  Charlotte  had  called 
up. 

"  Charlotte  Pain  is  nothing  to  George 
Godolphin,"  she  resentfully  said. 

"  Charlotte  Pain  is,"  responded 
Grace.  "And  if  jour  eyes  are  not 
yet  opened  to  it,  they  ought  to  be. 
She  is  to  be  his  wife." 

"  Oh,  no,  she  is  not,"  hastily  said 
Maria. 

"  Maria,  I  tell  you  that  she  is.  I 
know  it." 

Now,  Grace  Hastings  rarely  made 
an  assertion  unless  she  had  good 
grounds  for  it.  Maria  knew  that, 
And  the  dull  pain  at  her  heart  grew 
into  something  that  beat  against  it 
with  a  sharp  agony.  She  appeared 
impassive  enough,  looking  down  at 
her  thin  gold  chain,  which  her  fingers 
were  unconsciously  wreathing  into 
knots.   "You  cannot  know  it,  Grace." 

"  I  tell  you  I  do.  Mind  you,  I 
don't  say  that  they  will  inevitably  be 
married;  only,  that  they  contemplate 
being  so  at  present.  Charlotte  does 
well  not  to  make  too  sure  of  him  ! 
He  may  see  half  a  dozen  yet  whom 
he  will  prefer  to  Charlotte  Pain,  in 
his  roving,  butterfly  nature." 

Was   Grace  right  ?     Not  ten  min- 


128 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


utes  previously,  Maria  had  listened  to 
words  from  his  lips  which  most  surely 
intimated  that  it  was  herself  George 
had  chosen.  Who  was  Charlotte  ? — 
who  was  Charlotte  Pain,  that  she 
should  thus  thrust  herself  between 
them  ? 

April,  as  we  learn  both  by  its  re- 
putation and  by  our  own  experience, 
mocks  us  with  its  weather :  and  not 
a  few  envious  criticizers  had  prognos- 
ticated showers,  if  not  snow,  for  the 
fete  at  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly.  The 
unusually  lovely  weather  which  had 
marked  the  month,  so  far  as  it  had 
gone,  had  put  it  into  Mrs.Verrall's 
head  to  give  an  out-door  entertain- 
ment. Mr.Yerrall  had  himself  sug- 
gested that  the  weather  might  change ; 
that  there  was  no  dependence,  at  this 
season  of  the  year,  to  be  placed  on  it. 
But  she  would  not  change  her  project. 
If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst  at  the 
last  moment,  she  said,  they  must  do 
the  best  they  could  with  them  in- 
doors. 

But,  for  onee,  the  weather  was  not 
fickle.  The  day  rose  warm,  calm, 
beautifully  bright,  and  by  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  most  of  the  gay  revel- 
lers had  gathered  at  the  Folly. 

The  grounds  were  dotted  with 
them.  These  grounds,  by  the  way, 
were  mostly  the  grounds  of  Ashly- 
dyat,— those  pertaining  to  the  Folly 
being  of  exceedingly  limited  extent. 
Janet  Godolphin  drew  down  the  blinds 
of  Ashlydyat,  that  the  eyesore  might 
be  shut  out :  but  Cecil  stole  away  to 
her  room,  and  made  herself  a  peep- 
hole,— like  the  young  Hastingses  had 
done  at  Ethel  Grame's  funeral, — and 
looked  out  with  covetous  eyes.  Janet 
had  said  something  to  Thomas  about 
sending  a  hint  to  the  Folly  that  the 
domains  of  Ashlydyat  would  not  be 
free  for  the  guests :  but  Thomas, 
with  his  quiet  good  sense,  had  nega- 
tived it. 

Graceless  George  arrived  as  large 
as  life, — one  of  the  first.  He  was 
making  himself  conspicuous  among 
the  many-colored  groups, — or,  per- 
haps it  was,  that  they  made  him  so, 
by  gathering  round  him, — Avhcn  two 


figures  in  mourning  came  gliding  up 
behind  him,  one  of  whom  spoke  : 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  George  Go- 
dolphin  ?" 

George  turned.  And, — careless  and 
thoughtless  as  he  was,  graceless  as  he 
was  reported  to  be, — a  shock  of  sur- 
prise, not  unmixed  with  indignation, 
swept  over  his  feelings :  for  those, 
standing  before  him,  were  Lady  Sarah 
and  Miss  Grame. 

She — Sarah  Anne — looked  like  a 
shadow  still, — peevish,  white,  discon- 
tented. What  brought  them  there  ? 
Was  it  thus  that  they  showed  their 
regrets  for  the  dead  Ethel  ?  Was  it 
seemly  that  Sarah  Anne  should  ap- 
pear at  a  fete  of  gayety  in  her  weak, 
sickly  state, — not  yet  recovered  from 
the  effects  of  the  fever, — not  yet  out 
of  the  first  deep  mourning,  worn  for 
Ethel  ?" 

"  How  do  you  do,  Lady  Sarah  ?" 
very  gravely  responded  George  Go- 
dolphin. 

Lady  Sarah  may  have  discerned 
somewhat  of  his  feelings  from  the  ex- 
pression on  his  face.  ]S"ot  that  he  in- 
tentionally suffered  it  to  rise  in  re- 
proof of  her :  George  Godolphin  did 
not  set  himself  up  in  judgment  against 
his  fellows.  He,  indeed  !  Lady  Sa- 
rah drew  him  aside  with  her,  after  he 
had  shaken  hands  with  Sarah  Anne. 

"  I  am  sure  it  must  look  strange  to 
you  to  see  us  here,  Mr.  George.  But, 
poor  child,  she  continues  so  weak  and 
poorly,  that  I  scarcely  know  what  to 
do  with  her.  She  set  her  heart  upon 
coming  to  this  fete.  Since  Mrs.Ver- 
rall's card  arrived,  she  has  talked  of 
nothing  else,  and  I  thought  it  would 
not  do  to  cross  her.  Is  Mr.  Godol- 
phin here  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  George,  with 
more  haste  than  he  need  have  spoken. 

"  I  thought  he  would  not  be.  I 
remarked  so  to  Sarah  Anne,  when 
she  expressed  a  hope  of  seeing  him  : 
indeed,  I  think  it  was  that  hope  which 
chiefly  urged  her  to  come.  What 
have  we  done  to  him,  Mr.  George? 
He  scarcely  ever  comes  near  the 
house." 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  it/ 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


129 


returned  George.  "  I  can  see  that 
my  brother  feels  his  loss  deeply  yet. 
It  may  be,  Lady  Sarah,  that  visits  to 
your  house  remind  him  of  Ethel  too 
forcibly. " 

Lady  Sarah  lowered  her  voice  to  a 
confidential  whisper :  "  Will  he  ever 
marry,  think  you  ?" 

"  At  present  I  should  be  inclined  to 
say  he  never  would,"  answered  George, 
wondering  what  in  the  world  it  could 
matter  to  Lady  Sarah,  and  thinking 
she  evinced  little  sorrow  or  considera- 
tion for  the  memory  of  Ethel.  "  But 
time  works  surprising  changes,"  he 
added  :  "  and  time  may  marry  Mr. 
Godolphin." 

Lady  Sarah  paused.  "  How  do  you 
think  she  looks, — my  poor  child  ?" 

"  Miserable,"  all  but  rose  to  the  tip 
of  George's  tongue.  "  She  does  not 
look  well,"  he  said,  aloud. 

"  And  she  does  so  regret  her  dear 
sister ;  she's  grieving  after  her  al- 
ways," said  Lady  Sarah,  putting  up 
her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  thought  George 
to  himself. 

"  How  do  you  like  your  new  resi- 
dence ?"  she  resumed,  passing  with 
little  ceremony  to  another  topic. 

"  I  like  it  very  well.  All  places 
are  pretty  much  alike  to  a  bachelor, 
Lady  Sarah." 

"  Ah,  so  they  are.  You  won't  re- 
main a  bachelor  very  long,"  continued 
Lady  Sarah,  with  a  smile  of  jocu- 
larity. 

"  Not  so  very  long,  I  dare  say," 
frankly  acknowledged  Mr.  George. 
"  It  is  possible  I  may  put  my  head  in 
the  noose  sometime  in  the  next  ten 
years." 

She  would  have  detained  him  further, 
but  George  did  not  care  to  be  detained. 
He  went  after  more  attractive  com- 
panionship. 

Chance,  or  premeditation,  led  him  to 
Charlotte  Pain.  Charlotte  had  all 
her  attractions  about  her  that  day. 
Her  bright-green  silk  dress, — green 
was  a  favorite  color  of  hers, — with  its 
white-lace  mantle,  was  frequently  to 
be  seen  by  George  Godolphin's  side. 
Once  they  strayed  to  the  borders  of 


the  stream,  in  a  remote  part  of  the 
grounds.  Several  were  gathered  here. 
A  row  on  the  water  had  been  pro- 
posed, and  a  boat  stood  ready, — a 
small  boat,  holding  very  few  :  but, 
of  those  few,  George  and  Charlotte 
made  two. 

Could  George  Godolphin  have  fore- 
seen what  that  simple  little  excursion 
in  the  boat  was  to  do  for  him,  he  had 
never  entered  it.  How  is  it,  that  no 
shadow  of  warning  comes  over  us  at 
these  times  ?  How  many  a  day's 
pleasure,  begun  as  a  jubilee,  how 
many  a  voyage,  entered  upon  in  hope, 
ends  but  in  death  I  Not  a  fortnight 
since  now,  the  very  hour  at  which  I 
am  Avriting,  a  fine  young  lad,  fresh 
from  his  studies,  was  going  out  to 
one  of  our  colonies,  full  of  youth,  of 
hope,  of  prospects.  Two  ships  wen; 
offering  for  the  passage,  one  as  con- 
venient as  the  other:  which  should 
he  choose  ?  It  seemed  not  to  signify 
which,  and  the  choice  was  made. 
Could  no  warning  rise  up  to  his  aid, 
ever  so  indefinite,  and  point  away 
from  that  chosen  one  and  say  it  must 
be  shunned  ?  The  ship  sailed.  And 
she  has  gone  down  ;  within  sight  of 
land  ;  not  three  days  out ;  and  every 
soul  on  board,  save  one,  has  perished. 
"  If  we  had  but  fixed  upon  the  other 
ship  for  him  !"  wail  now  that  lad's 
mourning  friends.  Ay !  if  we  could 
but  lift  the  vail,  what  mistakes  might 
be  avoided ! 

George  Godolphin,  strong  and  ac- 
tive, took  the  oars.  And  when  they 
had  rowed  about  to  their  hearts'  con- 
tent, and  George  was  in  a  white  heat 
with  exertion,  they  bethought  them- 
selves that  they  would  land  for  awhile 
on  what  was  called  the  mock  island, — 
a  mossy  spot,  green  and  tempting  to 
the  eye.  In  stepping  ashore,  Char- 
lotte Pain  tripped,  lost  her  balance, 
and  would  have  been  in  the  watei 
but  for  George.  He  saved  her,  but 
he  could  not  save  her  parasol, — a 
dainty  parasol,  for  which  Miss  Char- 
lotte had  given  three  guineas  only  the 
previous  day.  She  naturally  shrieked 
when  it  went,  plunge  into  the  water : 
and  George  Godolphin,  in  recovering 


130 


T  HE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


it,  nearly  lost  his  balance,  and  went 
in  after  the  parasol.  Nearly :  not 
quite  :  he  got  himself  pretty  wet,  but 
he  made  light  of  it,  and  sat  himself 
down  on  the  grassy  island  with  the 
rest. 

The  party  were  all  young.  Old 
people  don't  much  care  to  venture  in 
the  shallow,  tilting  skiffs :  but,  had  any 
of  mature  age  been  there,  experienced 
in  chills  and  rheumatism,  they  would 
certainly  have  ordered  George  Godol- 
phin  home  at  the  top  of  his  speed,  to 
get  a  change  of  clothes,  and  perhaps  a 
glass  of  brandy. 

Charlotte  Pain  was  shaking  the 
wet  off  her  parasol,  when  somebody 
noticed  the  dripping  state  of  George's 
coat.  "  It  wants  shaking  also,"  said 
they.  "  Do  pray  take  it  off,  Mr. 
George  Godolphin  ?" 

George  took  it  off,  shook  it  well, 
and  laid  it  out  in  the  sun  to  dry,  sailor- 
fashion.  And  down  he  sat  again,  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  passing  some  jokes 
upon  his  state  of  costume,  and  request- 
ing to  know  what  apology  he  must 
make  for  it. 

By-and-by  he  began  to  feel  rather 
chill :  in  fact  he  grew  so  cold  that  he 
put  on  his  coat  again,  damp  as  it  was. 
it  might  have  occurred  to  him  that 
the  intense  perspiration  he  had  been 
in  was  struck  inwards,  but  it  did  not. 
In  the  evening  he  was  dancing  away 
with  the  best  of  them,  apparently 
having  escaped  all  ill  effects  from  the 
wetting,  and  thinking  no  further  of  it. 

Eh,  but  the  young  are  heedless  !  as 
Janet  would  have  said. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

STRAW  IN  THE  STREETS. 

Ankle-deep  before  the  banking- 
house  of  Godolphin,  Crosse,  and  Go- 
dolphin,  and  for  some  distance  on  either 
side, — ankle-deep  down  Crosse  Street 
as  far  as  you  could  see, — lay  masses 
of  straw.  As  carriages  came  up  to 
traverse  it,  their  drivers  checked  their 


horses  and  drove  them  at  a  foot-pace, 
raising  their  own  heads  to  look  up  at 
the  windows  of  the  dwelling ;  for  they 
knew  that  one  was  lying  there,  hover- 
ing between  life  and  death. 

It  was  George  Godolphin.  Impru- 
dent George  !  Healthy  and  strong  as 
he  might  be,  sound  as  his  constitution 
was,  that  little  episode  of  the  fete-day 
had  told  upon  him.  Few  men  can  do 
such  things  with  impunity,  and  come 
out  unscathed.  "  What  was  a  bit  of  a 
ducking;  and  that  only  a  partial  one? 
Nothing," — as  George  himself  said 
to  some  remonstrator  on  the  subse- 
quent day.  It  is  not  much,  certainly, 
to  those  who  are  used  to  it :  but,  taken 
in  conjunction  with  a  reeking  perspi- 
ration, and  with  an  hour  or  two's 
cooling  upon  the  grass  afterwards,  in 
the  airy  undress  of  shirt-sleeves,  it  is 
a  great  deal. 

It  had  proved  a  great  deal  for 
George  Godolphin.  An  attack  of 
rheumatic  fever  supervened,  danger- 
ous and  violent,  and  neither  Dr.  Beale 
nor  Mr.  Snow  could  give  a  guess 
whether  he  would  live  or  die.  Miss 
Godolphin  had  removed  to  the  bank 
to  share  with  Margery  the  task  of 
nursing  him.  Knockers  were  muffled  ; 
bells  were  tied  up;  straw,  as  you 
hear,  was  laid  down  in  the  streets ; 
people  passed  in  and  out,  even  at  the 
swing-doors,  when  they  went  to 
transact  business,  with  a  softened 
tread :  and  as  they  counted  the  cash 
for  their  checks,  they  leaned  over 
the  counter,  and  asked  the  clerks  in  a 
whisper  whether  Mr.  George  was  alive 
yet.  Yes,  he  wras  alive,  the  clerks 
could  always  answer,  but  it  was  as 
much  as  they  could  say. 

It  continued  to  be  "  as  much  as 
they  could  say"  for  nearly  a  month, 
and  then  George  Godolphin  began  to 
improve.  But  so  slowly!  day  after 
day  seemed  to  pass  without  visible 
sign. 

How  bore  up  Maria  Hastings : 
None  could  know  the  dread,  the  grief, 
that  was  at  work  within  her,  or  the 
deep  love  she  felt  for  George  Godol- 
phin. Her  nights  were  sleepless,  her 
days  were  restless :  she  lost  her  appe- 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


131 


tite,  her  energy,  almost  her  health. 
Mrs.  Hastings  wondered  what  was 
amiss  with  her,  and  hoped  Maria  was 
not  going  to  be  one  of  those  sickly 
ones  who  always  seem  to  fade  in  the 
springy 

Maria  could  speak  out  her  sorrow 
to  none.  Grace  would  not  have  sym- 
pathized with  any  feeling  so  strong, 
whose  object  was  George  Godolphin. 
And  had  Grace  sympathized  ever  so, 
Maria  would  not  have  spoken  it.  She 
possessed  that  shrinking  reticence  of 
feeling,  that  refined  sensitiveness,  to 
which  the  betraying  its  own  emotions 
to  another  would  be  little  less  than 
death.  Maria  could  not  trust  her 
voice  to  ask  after  him  :  when  Mr. 
Hastings  or  her  brothers  would  come 
in  and  say  (as  they  had,  more  than 
once),  "There's  a  report  in  the  town 
that  George  Godolphin's  dead,"  she 
could  not  press  upon  them  her  eager 
questions,  and  ask,  "Is  it  likely  to  be 
true  ?  Are  there  any  signs  that  it  is 
true  ?  Once,  when  this  rumor  came 
in,  Maria  made  an  excuse  to  go  out : 
some  trifle  to  be  purchased  in  the 
town,  she  said  to  Mrs.  Hastings :  and 
went  down  the  street  inwardly  shiver- 
ing, too  agitated  to  notice  acquaint- 
ances whom  she  met;  and,  opposite 
the  bank,  she  stole  her  glances  up  to 
its  private  windows,  and  saw  that  the 
blinds  were  down.  In  point  of  fact, 
this  told  nothing,  for  the  blinds  had 
been  kept  down  much  since  George's 
illness,  the  servants  not  troubling 
themselves  to  lift  them  :  but  to  the 
fears  of  Maria  Hastings,  it  spoke  vol- 
umes. Sick,  trembling,  she  continued 
her  way  mechanically  :  she  did  not 
dare  to  stop  even  for  a  moment,  or  to 
show,  in  her  timidity,  as  much  as  the 
anxiety  of  an  indifferent  friend.  At 
that  moment  Mr.  Snow  came  out  of 
the  house,  and  crossed  over. 

Maria  stopped  then.  Surely  she 
might  halt  to  speak  to  the  surgeon 
without  being  suspected  of  undue  in- 
terest in  Mr.  George  Godolphin.  She 
even  brought  out  the  words,  as  Mr. 
Snow  shook  hands  with  her,  ^'  You 
have  been  to  the  bank." 

"  Yes,  poor  fellow,  he  is  in  a  critical 


state,"  was  Mr.  Snow's  answer.  "  But 
I  think  there's  a  faint  indication  of 
improvement  this  afternoon." 

In  the  revulsion  of  feeling  which 
the  words  gave,  Maria  forgot  her  cau- 
tion. "  He  is  not  dead,  then  ?"  she 
uttered,  all  too  eagerly,  her  face  turn- 
ing to  a  glowing  crimson,  her  lips 
apart  with  emotion. 

Mr.  Snow  gathered  in  the  signs, 
and  a  grave  expression  stole  over  his 
lips;  but  the  next  minute  hewras  smil- 
ing openly.  "  'No,  he  is  not  dead  yet, 
Miss  Maria ;  and  we  must  see  what 
we  can  do  towards  keeping  him  alive." 
Maria  turned  home  again  with  a  beat- 
ing and  a  thankful  heart. 

A  weary,  weary  summer  for  George 
Godolphin, — a  weary,  weary  illness. 
It  was  more  than  two  months  before 
he  rose  from  his  bed  at  all,  and  it  was 
nearly  two  more  before  he  went  down 
the  stairs  of  the  dwelling-house.  A 
fine  balmy  day  it  was,  the  one  in  June, 
when  George  was  got  out  of  his  bed 
the  first  time,  and  put  in  the  easy- 
chair,  wrapped  up  in  blankets.  The 
sky  was  blue,  the  sun  was  warm,  and 
bees  and  buttterflies  sported  in  the 
summer  air.  George  turned  his  weary 
eyes,  weary  with  pain,  with  weakness, 
towards  the  cheering  signs  of  out-door 
life,  and  wondered  whether  he  should 
ever  be  abroad  again. 

It  was  August  before  that  time 
came.  Early  in  that  month  the  close 
carriage  of  Ashlydyat  waited  at  the 
door  to  take  Mr.  George  his  first  air- 
ing. A  shadowy  object  he  looked, — 
Mr.  Snow  on  one  side  of  him,  Margery 
on  the  other ;  Janet,  who  would  be 
his  companion  in  the  drive,  following. 
They  got  him  down-stairs  between 
them,  and  into  the  carriage.  From 
that  time  his  recovery,  though  slow, 
was  progressive  ;  and  in  another  week 
he  was  removed  to  Ashlydyat  for 
change.  He  could  walk  abroad  then 
with  two  sticks,  or  with  a  stick  and 
somebody's  arm.  George,  who  was 
getting  up  his  spirits  wonderfully,  de- 
clared he  and  his  sticks  should  be 
made  into  a  picture  and  sent  to  the 
next  exhibition  of  native  artists. 

One  morning;  he  and  his  two  sticks 


132 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


were  sunning  themselves  in  the  porch 
of  Ashlydyat,  when  a  stranger  ap- 
proached and  accosted  him, — a  gen- 
tlemanly looking  man  in  a  straw  hat, 
with  alight,  traveling-overcoat  thrown 
upon  his  arm.  George  looked  a  gen- 
tleman also,  in  spite  of  his  dilapidated 
state  of  flesh  and  his  sticks,  and  the 
stranger  raised  his  hat  with  something 
of  foreign  urbanity. 

"  Does  Mr.  Verrall  reside  here  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  George. 

A  defiant,  hard  sort  of  expression 
rose  immediately  to  the  stranger's 
face.  It  almost  seemed  to  imply  that 
George  was  deceiving  him  ;  and  his 
next  words  bore  out  the  impression. 
"  I  have  been  informed  that  he  does  re- 
side here,"  he  said,  with  a  stress  upon 
the  "does." 

"  He  did  reside  here,"  replied  George 
Godolphin  :  "  but  he  does  so  no  longer. 
That  is  where  Mr.  Verrall  lives,"  he 
added,  pointing  one  of  his  sticks  at 
the  white  walls  of  Lady  Godolphin's 
Folly. 

The  stranger  wheeled  round  on  his 
heel,  took  a  survey  of  it,  and  then 
lifted  his  hat  again,  apparently  satis- 
fied. "  Thank  you,  sir,"  he  said.  "  The 
mistake  was  mine.     Good-morning." 

George  watched  him  away  as  he 
strode  with  a  firm,  elastic,  quick  step 
towards  the  Folly.  George  wondered 
when  he  should  walk  again  with  the 
same  step.  Perhaps  the  notion,  or  the 
desire  to  do  so,  actuated  him  to  try  it 
then.  He  rose  from  his  scat  and  went 
tottering  out,  drawing  his  sticks  with 
him.  It  was  a  tempting  morning,  and 
George  strolled  on  in  its  brightness, 
resting  on  this  bench,  resting  on  that, 
when  he  was  tired,  and  then  bearing 
on  again. 

"I  might  get  as  far  as  the  Folly,  if 
I  tried  well,  and  took  my  time,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "  Would  it  not  be  a 
surprise  to  them  !" 

So  he  bore  onwards  to  the  Folly, 
like  the  stranger  had  done.  He  was 
drawing  very  near  it, — was  seated,  in 
fact,  on  the  last  bench  that  he  intended 
to  sit  on, — when  Mr.  Yerrall  passed. 

"  Have  you  had  a  gentleman  inquir- 
ing for  you  ?"  George  asked  him 


"What  gentleman  ?"  demanded  Mr. 
Yerrall. 

"  He  was  a  stranger.  He  came  to 
Ashlydyat,  supposing  you  resided 
there.     I  sent  him  to  the  Folly." 

"  Describe  him,  will  you  ?"  said  Mr. 
Verrall. 

"  I  noticed  nothing  much  describa- 
ble,"  replied  George.  "  He  wore  a 
straw  hat,  and  had  a  thin,  tweed  coat 
on  his  arm.  I  should  fancy  he  had 
just  come  off  a  journey." 

Mr.  Yerrall  left  George  where  he 
was,  and  went  back  to  the  Folly. 
George  rose  and  followed  more  slowly. 
But  when  he  got  beyond  the  trees, 
he  saw  that  Mr.  Verrall  must  have 
plunged  into  them, — as  if  he  would 
enter  the  Folly  by  the  servants'-door 
at  the  back.  George  crossed  the  lawn, 
and  made  straight  for  the  drawing- 
room  windows,  which  stood  open. 

Scarcely  had  he  entered,  and  flung 
himself  into  the  first  easy-chair  which 
stood  handy,  when  he  saw  the  same 
stranger  approach  the  house.  Where 
had  he  been,  not  to  have  found  it  be- 
fore ?  But  George  immediately  di- 
vined that  he  had  taken  the  wrong  turn- 
ing near  the  ash-trees,  and  so  had  had 
the  pleasure  of  a  round  to  Prior's  Ash 
and  back  again.  The  room  was  empty, 
and  George  sat  recovering  breath,  and 
enjoying  the  luxury  of  rest,  when  the 
stranger's  knock  resounded  at  the  hall- 
door. 

A  servant,  as  he  could  hear,  came 
forth  to  open  it ;  but,  before  that  was 
effected,  flying  footsteps  followed  the 
man  across  the  hall,  and  he  was  called 
to,  in  the  voice  of  Charlotte  Pain. 

"  James,"  said  she,  in  a  half- whisper, 
which  came  distinctly  to  the  ear  of 
George  Godolphin,  "  should  that  be 
any  one  for  Mr. Verrall,  show  him  in 
hers." 

A  second  room,  a  smaller  one,  stood 
between  the  one  George  had  entered, 
and  the  hall.  It  opened  both  to  the 
drawing-room  and  the  hall :  in  fact, 
it  served  as  a  sort  of  ante-room  to  the 
drawing-room.  It  was  into  this  room 
that  the  stranger  was  shown. 

Charlotte,  who  had  taken  a  seat, 
and  was  toying  with  some  embroidery- 


THE      SHAD  OW      OP     ASHLYDYAT. 


133 


work,  making  believe  to  be  busy  over 
\t,  rose  at  his  entrance,  with  the  pret- 
tiest air  of  surprise  imaginable.  He 
could  have  staked  his  life,  had  he  been 
required  to  do  it,  that  she  knew 
nothing  whatever  of  his  approach  until 
that  identical  moment,  when  James 
threw  open  the  door  and  announced 
''A  gentleman,  ma'am."  James  had 
been  unable  to  announce  him  in  more 
definite  terms.  Upon  his  asking  the 
stranger  what  name,  the  curt  answer 
had  been,  "  Never  mind  the  name. 
Mr.Verrall  knows  me." 

Charlotte  rose.  And  the  gentle- 
man's abruptness  changed  to  courtesy 
at  the  sight  of  her.  "  I  wish  to  see 
Mr.Verrall,"  he  said. 

"Mr.Verrall  is  in  town,"  replied 
Charlotte. 

"  In  town  !"  was  the  answer,  de- 
livered in  an  accent  of  excessive  sur- 
prise. "  Do  you  mean  in  London, 
madam  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  rejoined  Charlotte. 
"  In  London." 

"  But  he  only  left  London  last  night 
to  come  here  !"  was  the  stranger's 
answer. 

It  brought   Charlotte   to  a  pause. 

Self-possessed  as  she  was,  she  had 
to  think  a  moment  before  hazarding 
another  assertion.  "  May  I  inquire 
how  you  know  that  he  left  London 
last  night  for  this  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Because,  madam,  I  had  business 
yesterday  of  the  very  last  importance 
with  Mr.Verrall.  He  made  the  ap- 
pointment himself,  for  three  o'clock. 
I  went  at  three,  and  could  not  find 
him.  I  went  at  four,  and  waited  an 
hour,  with  the  like  result.  I  went 
again  at  seven,  and  then  I  was  told 
that  Mr.Verrall  had  been  telegraphed 
for  to  his  country-seat,  and  had  started. 
I  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  out 
where  his  country-seat  was  situated, 
but  I  succeeded  in  doing  that :  and  I 
followed  him  in  the  course  of  the 
night." 

"  How  very  unfortunate  !"  ex- 
claimed Charlotte,  who  had  gained 
her  clue.  "  He  was  telegraphed  for 
yesterday,  and  arrived  in  answer  to 
it,  getting  here  very  late  last  night. 


But  he  could  not  stay.  He  said  he 
had  business  to  attend  to  in  London, 
and  he  left  here  this  morning  by  an 
early  train.  Will  you  oblige  me  with 
your  name  ?"  she  added. 

"  My  name,  madam,  is  Appleby. 
It  is  possible  you  may  have  heard 
Mr.Verrall  mention  it,  if,  as  I  pre- 
sume, I  have  the  honor  of  speaking  to 
Mrs.Verrall." 

Charlotte  did  not  undeceive  him. 
"  When  did  you  see  Mr.Verrall  last?" 
she  suddenly  inquired,  as  if  the  thought 
had  just  struck  her. 

"  The  day  before  yesterday.  I  saw 
him  three  times  that  day,  and  he 
made  the  appointment  for  the  follow- 
ing one." 

"  I  am  so  sorry  you  should  have 
had  a  useless  journey,"  said  Charlotte, 
with  much  sympathy. 

"  I  am  sorry  also,"  said  the  stranger. 
"  Sorry  for  the  delay  this  causes  in 
certain  arrangements  :  which  delay  I 
can  ill  afford.  I  will  wish  you  good- 
morning,  madam,  and  start  back  by 
the  first  train." 

Charlotte  touched  the  bell,  and 
courtseyed  her  adieu.  The  stranger 
had  the  door  open,  when  he  turned 
round,  and  spoke  again  : 

"  I  presume  I  may  entirely  rely 
upon  what  you  tell  me, — that  Verrall 
is  gone  back  ?" 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  answered  Char- 
lotte. 

Now,  every  syllable  of  this  colloquy 
had  reached  the  ears  of  George  Go- 
dolphin.  It  puzzled  him  not  a  little. 
Were  there  two  Verralls  ?  The  Ver- 
rall of  the  Folly,  with  whom  he  had 
so  recently  exchanged  words,  had  cer- 
tainly not  been  in  London  for  a  fort- 
night past,  or  anywhei'e  else  but  in 
that  neighborhood.  And  what  did 
Charlotte  mean,  by  saying  he  had 
gone  to  town  that  morning  ? 

Charlotte  came  in,  singing  a  scrap 
of  a  song.  She  started  when  she  saw 
George,  and  then  flew  to  him  in  a 
glow  of  delight,  holding  out  her  hands. 

What  could  he  do  but  take  them  ? 
What  could  he  do  but  draw  Charlotte 
down  by  him  on  the  sofa,  holding 
them  still.     "  How  pleased  I  am  to 


134 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT. 


see  you  !"  exclaimed  Charlotte.  "  I 
shall  think  the  dear  old  times  are 
coming  round  again." 

"  Charlotte  mia,  do  you  know  what 
I  kave  been  obliged  to  hear  ?  That 
interesting  confab  you  have  been  taking 
part  in,  in  the  next  room." 

Charlotte  burst  into  a  laugh.  From 
the  moment  when  she  first  caught  a 
glimpse  of  George,  seated  there,  she 
had  felt  sure  that  he  must  have  heard 
it.  "  Did  I  do  it  well  ?"  she  cried, 
triumphantly. 

"  How  could  you  invent  such  fibs  ?" 

"Verrall  came  up-stairs  to  me  and 
Kate,"  said  Charlotte,  laughing  more 
merrily  than  before.  "  He  said  there 
was  somebody  going  to  call  here,  he 
thought  with  a  begging  petition,  and 
he  did  not  care  to  see  him.  Would  I 
go  and  put  the  man  off.  I  asked  him 
how  I  should  put  him  off,  and  he  an- 
swered, '  Any  way.  Say  he  had  gone 
to  London,  if  I  liked.'" 

Was  Charlotte  telling  truth  or  false- 
hood ?  That  there  was  more  in  all 
this  than  met  the  eye  was  evident. 
It  was  no  business  of  George  Godol- 
phin's,  neither  did  he  make  it  his. 

And  you  have  really  walked  here 
all  the  way  by  yourself!"  she  resumed. 
"  I  am  so  glad  !  You  will  get  well 
now  all  one  way." 

"  I  don't  know  about  getting  well '  all 
one  way,'  Charlotte.  The  doctors  have 
been  ordering  me  away  for  the  winter." 

"  For  the  winter  !"  repeated  Char- 
lotte, her  tone  growing  sober.  "What 
for  ?     Where  to  ?" 

"To  some  place  where  the  skies  are 
more  genial  than  in  this  cold  climate 
of  ours,"  replied  George.  "  If  I  wish 
to  get  thoroughly  well,  they  say,  I 
must  start  off  next  month,  September, 
and  not  return  till  April." 

"  But — should  you  go  alone  ?" 

"  There's  the  worst  of  it.  We  poor 
bachelor  fellows  are  like  stray  sheep, — 
nobodv  owning  us,  nobody  caring  for 
us." 

"  Take  somebody  with  you,"  sug- 
gested Charlotte. 

"  That's  easier  said  than  done," 
laughed  George. 

Charlotte  threw  one  of  her  brilliant 


glances  at  him.  She  had  risen,  and 
was  standing  before  him,  all  her  at- 
tractions in  full  play  "  There's  an 
old  saying,  Mr.  George  Godolpbin, 
that  where  there's  a  will,  there's  a 
way,"  quoth  she. 

George  made  a  gallant  answer,  and 
they  were  progressing  in  each  other's 
good  graces  to  their  own  content, 
when  an  interruption  came  to  it.  The 
same  servant  who  had  opened  the 
door  to  the  stranger  entered. 

"Miss  Pain,  if  you  please,  my  mas- 
ter says  will  you  step  to  him." 

"  I  declare  you  make  me  forget  every 
thing,"  cried  Charlotte  to  George,  as 
she  quitted  the  room.  And  picking 
up  her  King  Charley,  she  threw  it  at 
him.  "There  !  take  care  of  him,  Mr. 
George  Godolphin,  until  I  come  back 
again." 

A  few  minutes  subsequently,  George 
saw  Mr.Yerrall  leave  the  house  and 
cross  the  lawn.  A  servant  behind 
him  was  bearing  a  small  portmanteau 
and  an  overcoat,  like  the  stranger  had 
carried  on  his  arm.  Was  Mr.  Verrall 
likewise  ffoins:  to  London  ? 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ONE   STICK   DISCARDED. 

The  morning  sun  shone  on  the  green 
lawn,  on  the  clustering  flowers,  rich  in 
their  many  colors,  sweet  in  their  ex- 
haling perfumes,  before  the  breakfast- 
room  at  Ashlydyat.  The  room  itself 
was  in  the  shade  :  as  it  is  pleasant  in 
summer  for  a  room  to  be  :  but  the 
windows  stood  open  to  the  delights  of 
out-door  life. 

Janet  presided  at  the  breakfast-table. 
She  always  did  preside.  Thomas, 
Bessy,  and  Cecil  were  disposed  around 
her ;  leaving  the  side  of  the  table  next 
the  windows  vacant,  that  no  obstruc- 
tion might  intervene  between  the 
sight  of  any  and  the  view  of  the  sum- 
mer's morning, — a  summer  that  would 
soon  be  on  the  wane,  for  September 
was  approaching. 


TIIE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


135 


"  She  ought  to  be  here  by  four 
o'clock,"  observed  Bessy,  continuing 
the  conversation.  "  Otherwise,  she 
cannot  be  here  until  seven.  There's 
no  train  comes  in  from  Farnley  be- 
tween four  o'clock  and  seven,  is  there, 
Thomas  ?" 

"  I  think  not,"  replied  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin.  "But  I  really  know  very 
little  about  their  branch  lines.  Stay. 
Farnley?  No:  I  remember:  I  am 
sure  there  is  nothing  in  between  four 
and  seven." 

"  Don't  fash  yourselves,"  said  Janet, 
in  composure,  who  had  been  occupied 
with  the  urn.  "  When  Mrs.  Briscow 
sends  me  word  she  will  arrive  by  the 
afternoon  train,  I  know  she  can  only 
mean  the  one  that  gets  here  at  four 
o'clock :  and  I  shall  be  there  at  four 
in  the  carriage  to  meet  her.  She  is 
early  in  her  notions,  and  she  would 
have  called  seven  the  night  train." 

Cecil,  who  appeared  more  en- 
gaged in  toying  with  the  black  ribbons 
that  were  flowing  from  the  pretty 
white  sleeves  round  her  pretty  wrists, 
than  in  eating  her  breakfast,  looked 
up  at  her  sister.  "  How  long  is  it 
since  she  was  here  last,  Janet  ?" 

"She  was  here  the  summer  after 
your  mother  died. " 

"All  that  while  !"  exclaimed  Cecil. 
A  few  years  do  seem  an  "  all"  to  the 
young. 

"It  is  very  good  of  her  to  leave 
her  home  at  her  age,  and  come 
amongst  us  once  again  !"  said  Bessy. 

"  It  is  George  who  is  bringing  her 
here  ;  I  am  sure  of  that,"  returned 
Janet.  "  She  was  so  concerned  about 
his  illness.  She  wants  to  see  him, 
now  he  is  getting  better.  George 
was  always  her  favorite." 

"  How  is  George  this  morning  ?" 
inquired  Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  George  is  alive,"  replied  a  voice 
from  the  door,  which  had  opened. 
There  stood  George  himself. 

Alive  decidedly;  but  weak  and  wan 
still.  He  could  walk  with  the  help  of 
one  stick  now. 

"  If  I  don't  make  an  effort — as  some- 
body says  in  that  book-case — I  may 


remain  a  puny  invalid,  like  a  woman. 
I  thought  I'd  try  and  surprise  you." 

They  made  ready  a  place  for  him, 
and  put  a  chair,  and  set  good  things 
before  him, — all  in  affectionate  eager- 
ness. But  George  Godolphin  could 
not  accomplish  much  breakfast  yet. 
"  My  appetite  is  capricious,  Janet," 
he  observed.  "  I  think  to-morrow  I 
will  try  chocolate  and  milk." 

"  A  cup  can  be  made  at  once, 
George,  if  yota  would  like  it." 

"No,  I  don't  care  about  it  now.  I 
suppose  the  doctors  are  right, — that  I 
can't  get  into  proper  order  again, 
without  change.  A  dull  time  of  it,  1 
shall  have,  whatever  place  they  may 
exile  me  to." 

A  question  had  been  mooted,  bring- 
ing somewhat  of  vexation  in  its  dis- 
cussion, touching  the  accompanying 
of  George.  Whether  he  should  be 
accompanied  at  all,  in  what  he  was 
pleased  to  term  his  exile  :  and,  if  so, 
by  whom.  Janet  could  not  go  ;  or 
thought  she  could  not :  Ashlydyat 
wanted  her.  Bessy  was  deep  in  her 
schools,  her  district  visiting,  in  parish 
aifairs  generally,  and  openly  said  she 
did  not  care  to  quit  them  just  now. 
Cecil  was  perfectly  ready  and  willing. 
Had  George  been  going  to  the  wilds 
of  Africa,  Cecil  would  have  entered 
on  the  journey  with  enthusiasm  :  the 
outer  world  had  attractions  for  Cecil 
and  her  inexperience.  But  Janet  did 
not  deem  it  expedient  to  trust  pretty 
Cecil  to  the  sole  guardianship  of 
thoughtless  George,  and  that  was  put 
down  ere  Cecil  had  well  spoken  of  it. 
George's  private  opinion  was — and  he 
spoke  it  publicly — that  he  should  be 
better  without  any  of  them  than  with 
them  ;  that  they  would  "  only  be  a 
bother."  On  one  point,  he  turned 
entirely  restive.  Janet's  idea  had 
been  to  despatch  Margery  with  him  ; 
to  see  after  his  comforts,  his  medi- 
cines, his  warm  beds,  and  his  beef- 
tea.  Not  if  he  knew  it,  George  an- 
swered. Why  not  set  him  up  with  a 
staff  of  women  at  once — a  lady's-maiil, 
and  a  nurse  from  the  hospitals,  in  ad- 
dition  to   Margery?      And    he   was 


136 


T  II  E       S  II  A  1)  0  W       OF       A  S  II  L  Y  I)  Y  A  T 


pleased  to  indulge  in  so  much  ridicule 
upon  the  point,  as  to  anger  Janet  and 
offend  Margery. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  some  fellow  who 
was  going  yachting  for  the  next  six 
months,  and  would  give  me  boat- 
mom,"  observed  George,  stirring  his 
rea  listlessly. 

"  That  would  be  an  improvement!" 
^aid  Janet,  speaking  in  satire.  "  Six 
months'  sea-sickness  and  sea-wetting 
would  about  do  for  you  what  the  fever 
lias  left  undone." 

"  So  it  might,"  said  George.  "  Only 
that  we  get  over  sea-sickness  in  a 
couple  of  days,  and  sea-wettings  are 
healthy.  However,  don't  let  it  dis- 
lurb  your  placidity:  the  yacht  is 
wanting,  and  I  am  not  likely  to 
get  the  opportunity  of  trying  it.  No 
rhank  you,  Janet" — rejecting  a  plate 
she  was  offering  him — "I  cannot  eat 
it." 

"  Mrs.  Briscow  comes  to-day,  George," 
observed  Bessy.  "  Janet  is  going  to 
meet  her  at  the  station  at  three.  She 
is  coming  purposely  to  see  you." 

"Very  amiable  of  the  old  lady!" 
responded  George.  "What's  she  like, 
Jauet  ?  I  have  forgotten  her.  Does 
she  wear  a  front,  or  her  own  gray 
locks?" 

Cecil  laughed.  Janet  administered 
a  reproof:  to  George  for  his  ridicule, 
to  Cecil  for  laughing  at  it.  "  You 
will  see  what  she  is  like,  if  you  wait 
patiently  until  dinner-time,  George." 

"I  fear  the  pleasure  will  have  to 
be  deferred  a  little  later,"  returned 
George.     "  I  am  going  out  to  dinner." 

"  Nay,  George,"  quickly  returned 
Janet,  "but  you  must  be  at  home  or 
dinner  to-day." 

"  I  have  promised  to  go  out,  Janet." 

Even  Thomas  looked  surprised. 
( Jeorge  was  not  yet  in  precisely  going- 
out-to-dinner  condition. 

"  I  have  promised  Mrs.  Yerrall  to 
get  as  far  as  the  Folly  this  afternoon, 
and  stay  to  dine  with  them.  En  fa- 
mille,  you  know." 

"  Mr.  Yerrall  is  not  at  home,"  said 
Bessy,  quickly. 

"  But  she  and  Charlotte  are,"  re- 
sponded George. 


"  You  know  you  must  not  be  out  in 
the  night  air,  George." 

"  I  shall  be  home  by  sundown,  or 
thereabouts.  Not  that  the  night  air 
would  hurt  me  now." 

"  The  doctors  say  it  would,  George," 
urged  Bessy. 

"  Of  course  they  do.  Doctors  must 
croak,  or  how  would  their  trade  go  on  ? 
They  intend  dining  at  five  to  accom- 
modate me.  I  shall  not  stay  after- 
wards. " 

"You  cannot  partake  of  rich  dishes 
yet,"  urged  Bessy  again. 

"  Bien  entendu.  Mrs.  Yerrall  has 
ordered  an  array  of  invalid  ones  : 
mutton-broth  d  Veau,  and  boiled  whit- 
ing au  naturel,"  responded  George, 
who  appeared  to  have  an  answer 
ready  for  all  dissentient  propositions. 

Janet  interposed,  —  looking  and 
speaking  very  gravely.  "  George,  it 
will  be  a  great  mark  of  disrespect  to 
Mrs.  Briscow,  the  lifelong  friend  of 
your  father  and  mother,  not  to  be  at 
home  to  sit  at  table  with  her  the  first 
day  she  is  here.  Only  one  thing  could 
excuse  your  absence, — urgent  busi- 
ness,— and  that  you  have  not  to  plead." 

George  answered  tartly.  He  was 
weak  from  recent  illness,  and  like 
many  others  under  the  same  circum- 
stances did  not  relish  being  crossed 
in  trifles.  "Janet,  you  are  unreason- 
able. As  if  it  were  requisite  that  I 
should  break  a  promise  just  for  the 
purpose  of  dining  with  an  old  woman  ! 
There'll  be  plenty  of  other  days  that  I 
can  dine  with  her.  And  I  shall  be  at 
home  this  evening  before  you  have 
well  risen  from  table." 

"  I  beg  you  to  speak  of  Mrs.  Bris- 
cow with  more  respect,  George.  It 
cannot  matter  whether  you  stay  at  the 
Yerralls  to-day  or  another  day,"  per- 
sisted Janet. 

"  It  matters  to  me.  I  have  set  my 
mind  upon  it.  You  can  tell  Mrs. 
Briscow  that  it  was  an  engagement 
entered  into  before  I  knew  she  would 
be  here  :  that  I  would  not  have  made 
it,  had  I  known.     As  I  would  not." 

"  I'd  not  say  a  word  against  it  were 
it  an  engagement  of  consequence. 
You  can  go  to  the  Folly  any  day." 


THE      SHADO  W      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T 


137 


"  But  I  choose  to  go  to-day,"  said 
George. 

Janet  fixed  her  deep  eyes  upon  him, 
— her  gaze  one  of  sad  penetration,  her 
voice  changed  to  one  of  mourning. 
"  Have  those  women  fixed  a  spell 
upon  ye,  lad  ?" 

It  drove  away  George's  ill-humor. 
He  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  returned 
the  gaze  openly  enough.  "  Not  they, 
Janet.  Mrs.Verrall  may  have  spells 
to  cast  for  aught  I  know :  it's  Ver- 
rall's  business, — not  mine  :  but  they 
have  certainly  not  been  directed  to 
me.     And  Charlotte " 

"  Ay,"  put  in  Janet,  in  a  lower  tone, 
"  what  of  Charlotte  Pain  ?" 

"  This :  Janet.  That  I  can  steer 
clear  of  any  spells  cast  by  Charlotte 
Pain.  Not  but  what  I  admire  Char- 
lotte very  much,"  he  added,  in  a  little 
spirit  of  mischief.  "  I  assure  you  I 
am  quite  a  slave  to  her  fascinations." 

"  Keep  you  out  of  her  fascinations, 
lad,"  returned  Janet,  in  a  tone  of  sol- 
emn meaning.  "  It's  my  first  and 
best  advice  to  you." 

"  I  will,  Janet,  when  I  find  them 
grow  dangerous." 

Janet  said  no  more.  There  was 
that  expression  on  her  countenance 
which  they  well  knew,  telling  of  griev- 
ous dissatisfaction.  Thomas  rose.  He 
had  finished  his  breakfast. 

"  You  will  be  home  to  dinner  ?" 
Janet  said  to  him  with  emphasis,  as 
he  prepared  to  leave. 

"Certainly,"  he  answered,  turning 
to  her  with  a  slight  gesture  of  sur- 
prise. "  I  generally  do  come  home 
to  it,  Janet." 

"  Ay."  And  Janet  sat  beating  her 
foot  on  the  floor  softly  and  slowly, 
as  was  her  custom  when  in  disqui- 
etude or  in  deep  thought. 

The  rising  earlier  than  his  strength 
was  as  yet  equal  to  told  upon  George 
Godolphin  ;  and  by  the  middle  of  the 
day  he  felt  so  full  of  weariness  and 
lassitude  that  he  was  glad  to  throw 
himself  on  the  sofa  in  the  large  draw- 
ing-room,— quiet  and  unoccupied  then, 
— pushing  the  couch,  first  of  all,  with 
his  feeble  powers,  close  to  the  window 
that  he  misrht  be  in  the  sunshine.   The 


warm  sunshine  was  grateful  to  him. 
Here  he  dropped  asleep,  and  only 
woke  from  it  considerably  later  at  the 
entrance  of  Cecil. 

Cecil  was  dressed  for  the  day  in  a 
thin,  flowing  black  dress, — a  jet  neck- 
lace on  her  slender  neck,  jet  bracelets 
on  her  fair  arms.  A  fair  flower  waa 
Cecilia  Godolphin, — none  fairer  within 
all  the  precincts  of  Prior's  Ash.  She 
kelt  down  by  George  and  kissed  him. 

"  We  have  been  in  to  glance  at  you 
two  or  three  times,  George.  Margery 
has  got  something  nice  for  you,  and 
would  have  aroused  you  to  take  it, 
— only  she  says  sleep  will  do  you  as 
much  good  as  food." 

"  What's  the  time  ?"  asked  George, 
too  indolent  to  take  his  own  watch 
from  his  pocket. 

"  Half-past  three." 

"Nonsense!"  cried  George,  par- 
tially starting  up.  "  It  can't  be  so 
late  as  that." 

"  It  is  indeed.  Janet  has  just  driven 
off  to  the  railway.  Don't  rise  this 
minute  :  you  are  all  in  a  perspiration." 

"  I  wonder  Janet  let  me  sleep  so 
long  ?" 

"  Why  should  she  not  ?  Janet  ha* 
been  very  busy  all  day,  and  very " 

"  Cross  ?"  put  in  George. 

"  I  was  going  to  say  silent,"  replied 
Cecil.  "  You  vexed  her  this  morning, 
George." 

"  There  was  nothing  that  she  need 
have  been  vexed  at,"  responded  Mr. 
George. 

Cecil  remained  for  a  few  moments 
without  speaking.  "  I  think  Janet  is 
afraid  of  Charlotte  Pain,"  she  presently 
said. 

"  Afraid  of  Charlotte  Pain  !  In 
what  way  ?" 

"  George," — lowering  her  voice  and 
running  her  fingers  caressingly  through 
his  bright  hair  as  he  lay, — "I  wish  you 
would  let  me  ask  you  something." 

"Ask  away,"  replied  George. 

"  Ay  :  but  will  you  answer  me  ?" 

"That  depends,"  he  laughed.  "Ask 
away,  Cely." 

"  Is  there  any  thing  between  you 
and  Charlotte  Pain  ?" 

"Plenty,"  returned  George,  in  the 


138 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT, 


lightest  possible  tone.  "  Like  there 
is  between  me  and  a  dozen  more  young 
ladies.  Charlotte  happening  to  be 
the  nearest  gets  most  of  me  just 
now." 

"  Plenty  of  what  ?" 

"  Talking  and  laughing  and  gossip. 
That's  about  the  extent  of  it,  pretty 
Cely." 

Cecil  wished  he  would  be  more 
serious.  "  Shall  you  be  likely  to 
marry  her  ?"  she  breathed. 

"  Just  as  likely  as  I  shall  be  to 
marry  you."  And  he  spoke  seriously 
now. 

Cecil  drew  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  Then, 
George,  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is  that 
has  helped  to  vex  Janet.  You  know 
our  servants  get  talking  to  Mrs.  Ver- 
rall's,  and  her  servants  to  ours.  And 
the  news  was  brought  here  that  Char- 
lotte Pain  has  said  she  would  probably 
be  going  on  a  journey, — a  journey 
abroad,  for  six  months  or  so, — some- 
where where  she  should  stop  the 
winter.  Margery  told  Janet, — and — 
and " 

"  You  construed  it,  between  you, 
that  Charlotte  was  going  to  be  a 
partner  in  my  exile  1  What  droll 
people  you  must  all  be  I" 

"Why,  George?" 

"Why  !  Are  wedding-toilettes  got 
up  in  that  hasty  fashion,  Miss  Cecil  ? 
I  must  be  away  in  a  fortnight.  It 
would  take  you  ladies  longer  to  fix 
upon  your  orange-wreath  alone." 

"  There's  no  doubt,  George,  that 
Charlotte  Pain  was  heard  to  say  it." 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  may  have 
been  heard  to  say.  It  could  have 
borne  no  reference  to  my  movements. 
Cecil  ?" 

"  Well  ?" 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  old  Max's 
hounds  losing  their  scent  ?" 

-   "  No 1  don't  know.     What  do 

you  mean  ?" 

And  while  George  Godolphin  was 
laughing  at  her  puzzled  look,  Margery 
came  in.  "  Be  you  a'most  famished, 
Mr.  George  ?  How  could  you  think 
of  dropping  off  to  sleep  till  you  had 
had  something  to  sustain  you  ?" 

"  We  often  do  things  that  we  don't 


'think'  to  do,  Margery,"  quoth  he,  as 
he  rose  from  the  sofa. 

"  Nothing  more  true,  Mr.  George 
Godolphin." 

Ere  long  he  was  on  his  way  to 
Mrs.  Verrall's.  Notwithstanding  Ja- 
net's displeasure,  he  had  no  idea  of 
foregoing  his  engagement.  The  so- 
ciety of  two  attractive  women  had 
more  charms  for  listless  George,  than 
quiet  Ashlydyat.  It  was  a  lovely  after- 
noon, less  hot  than  it  had  been  of  late, 
and  George  really  enjoyed  it.  He 
was  beginning  to  walk  so  much  better. 
That  long  sleep  had  rested  and  re- 
freshed him,  and  he  believed  that  he 
could  walk  well  into  Prior's  Ash.  "  I'll 
try  it  to-morrow,"  thought  George. 

Up  the  steps,  over  the  terrace, 
across  to  the  open  windows  of  the 
Folly, — it  was  the  easiest  way  in,  and 
George  was  not  given  to  use  unneces- 
sary ceremony.  He  supposed  he  might 
find  the  ladies  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  he  stepped  over  the  window's 
threshold. 

Only  one  was  there, — Charlotte. 
She  did  not  see  him  enter.  She  was 
before  a  pier-glass,  holding  up  her 
dog,  King  Charley,  that  he  might 
snarl  and  bark  at  the  imaginary  King 
Charley  in  the  glass.  That  other  dog 
of  hers,  the  ugly  Scotch  terrier  which 
you  have  heard  of  before,  and  a  third, 
looking  something  like  a  bull-dog, 
were  leaping  and  howling  at  her  feet. 
It  would  appear  that  nothing  pleased 
Charlotte  better  than  the  putting  her 
dogs  into  a  fury.  Charlotte  wore  a 
dark-blue  silk  dress  with  shaded 
flounces,  and  a  lighter  blue  silk 
jacket, — the  latter,  ornamented  with 
braidings  and  buttons  of  silver,  some- 
what after  the  fashion  of  her  green 
riding-habit,  and  as  tight  to  the  shape 
as  that  was.  A  well-formed  shape  ! — 
and  George  Godolphin  thought  so,  as 
she  stood  with  her  arms  lifted,  setting 
the  dog  at  the  glass. 

"  Hi,  King  1  Seize  him,  Charley  ! 
Go  at  him  ! — hiss  !  Let  fly  at  him, 
dog  !  Tear  him  1  bite  him  1 — hiss- 
ss-ss  ! " 

The  noisy  reception  by  the  other 
dogs  of  Mr.  George  Godolphin,  brought 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


139 


the  young  lady's  words  and  her  pretty 
employment  to  a  stand-still.  She  re- 
leased the  prisoned  dog  from  her  arms, 
letting  him  drop  anywhere,  and  turned 
to  George  Godolphin. 

"  Have  you  come  at  last  ?  I  had 
given  you  up  !  I  expected  you  an 
hour  and  a-half  ago." 

"And  to  while  away  the  time  you 
set  your  dogs  on  to  snarl  and  fight  1" 
]  eturned  he,  as  he  took  her  hand.  "  I 
wonder  you  don't  go  distracted  with 
the  noise,  Charlotte  !" 

"  You  don't  like  dogs  !  I  often  tell 
you  so." 

"  Yes  I  do, — in  their  proper  places." 

Charlotte  turned  from  him  with  a 
pout.     The  terrier  jumped  upon  her. 

"  Down,  Pluto,  down  !  There's  a 
gentleman  here  who  thinks  I  ought  to 
hold  you  poor  dogs  at  arms-length." 

"  At  the  yard's-length,  if  you  please, 
Charlotte,"  corrected  George,  who  did 
»ot  feel  inclined  to  compromise  his 
words.  "  Hark  at  them  1  They  may 
be  heard  at  Prior's  Ash." 

"  And  his  name's  George  Godolphin, 
good  Pluto  !"  went  on  Charlotte,  do- 
ing all  she  possibly  could,  in  a  quiet 
way,  to  excite  the  dogs.  "  Down, 
then,  Pluto  !  down  !" 

"I  should  muzzle  you,  Mr.  Pluto, 
if  you  were  mine,"  cried  George,  as 
the  dog  jumped  up  at  him  furiously, 
and  then  turned  to  attack  his  former 
adversary.  "Pluto!"  he  continued, 
meaningly ;  "  who  gave  him  that 
name,  Charlotte  ?" 

"  I  did,"  avowed  Charlotte.  "  And 
I  named  this  other  one  King  Charley, 
in  accordance  with  his  species.  And 
this  one  is  Deuce.  What  have  you 
to  say  against  the  names  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  George.  "  I  think 
them  very  good,  appropriate  names," 
he  added,  his  lips  parting. 

They  were  certainly  very  good 
dogs, — if  to  make  a  most  excruciating 
noise  constitutes  goodness.  George 
Godolphin,  his  nerves  in  a  shattered 
state,  lifted  his  hand  wearily  to  his 
forehead.  It  brought  Charlotte  Pain 
to  her  recollection. 

"Oh,  George,  I  forgot!  -I  d'd, 
really  I     I   forgot  you   were   not   as 


strong  yet  a?  the  rest  of  us.  Be  quiet, 
then,  you  three  horrid  brutes  !  Be 
quiet,  will  you  !  Get  off,  and  quarrel 
outside." 

Using  her  pointed  toe  rather  liberal- 
ly, Charlotte  set  herself  to  scatter  the 
dogs.  They  were  not  very  obedient. 
As  soon  as  one  was  got  out,  another 
sprung  in,  the  noise  never  ceasing. 
Charlotte  snatched  up  a  basket  of 
macaroons  that  happened  to  be  on  a 
side-table,  and  scattered  the  cakes  on 
the  terrace.  "  There  !  quarrel  and 
fight  over  those  !" 

She  put  down  the  empty  basket, 
closed  the  window  to  shut  out  the 
noise,  and  turned  to  George.  Pulling 
her  dress  out  on  either  side,  after  the 
manner  once  in  vogue  for  ancient  ball- 
rooms, she  dropped  him  an  elaborate 
curtsey. 

"  Mr.  George  Godolphin,  what  honor 
do  you  suppose  is  thrust  upon  me  to- 
day ?" 

"You  must  tell  me,  Charlotte,  if 
it's  one  you  wish  me  to  know,"  he 
answered.  "  I  can  never  attempt  to 
guess  when  I  feel  tired,  as  I  do  now." 

"  Your  walk  has  tired  you  ?" 

"  I  suppose  it  has.  Though  I 
thought  how  well  I  felt  as  I  came 
along." 

"  The  great  honor  of  entertaining 
you,  all  by  my  own  self,  is  delegated 
to  me,"  cried  Charlotte,  gayly,  drop- 
ping another  curtsey.  "  I  hope  we 
shall  not  quarrel,  as  those  dogs  are 
doing. n 

"The  honor  of  entertaining  me!" 
he  repeated,  not  catching  her  mean- 
ing.    "  Entertaining  me  for  what  ?" 

"  For  dinner,  sir.  Mrs.  Yerrall  has 
gone  to  London." 

"No  !"  he  exclaimed.  He  did  not 
believe  her. 

Charlotte  nodded  conclusively. 
"  She  went  at  mid-day." 

"But  what  took  her  away  so  sud 
denly  ?"  exclaimed  George,  in  surprise. 
"  She  had  no  intention  yesterday  of 
going." 

"  A  freak.  Or,  impulse, — if  you 
like  the  word  better.  Kate  rarely 
acts  upon  any  thing  else.  She  has 
been   expecting  Yerrall   home  these 


140 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


last  three  days, — but  he  has  neither 
come  nor  written, — and  this  morning, 
after  the  post  was  in,  she  suddenly 
declared  she'd  go  to  town,  and  see 
what  was  keeping  him." 

"  They  may  cross  each  other  on  the 
road." 

"  Of  course  they  may, — and  Kate 
have  her  journey  for  her  pains.  That's 
nothing  to  her, — she  likes  traveling. 
'  What  am  I  to  do  with  Mr.  George 
Godolphin  ?  Entertain  him  V  I  said 
to  her.  '  I  suppose  you  can  contrive 
to  do  it,'  she  answered.  '  I  suppose  I 
could,'  I  said.  '  But,  what  about  it's 
being  proper  ?'  I  asked,"  added  Char- 
lotte, with  a  demure  glance  at  George. 
"  '  Oh,'  said  Kate,  '  it's  proper  enough, 
poor  sick  fellow.  It  would  never  do 
to  disappoint  him.'  Therefore,  sir, 
please  take  care  that  you  behave  prop- 
erly, considering  that  a  young  lady 
is  your  hostess. " 

She  threw  a  laughing  glance  at 
George ;  and,  sitting  down  at  the 
table,  took  a  pack  of  beautifully 
painted  cards  from  an  ivory  box,  and 
began  that  delectable  game  that  the 
French  call  "La  patience."  George 
watched  her  from  the  sofa  where  he 
was  sitting.  A  certain  thought  had 
darted  into  his  mind.  What  fit  of 
prudence  called  it  up  ?  Did  he  think 
of  Charlotte's  benefit, — or  of  his  own  ? 
Did  the  recollection  of  what  Cecil  had 
whispered  actuate  him  ?  There's  no 
telling.  It  was  very  far  indeed  from 
George  Godolphin's  intention  to  make 
a  wife  of  Charlotte  Pain,  and  he  may 
have  deemed  it  well  to  avoid  all  situ- 
ations where  he  might  compromise 
himself  by  a  hasty  word.  Such  words 
are  more  easily  dropped  than  taken 
up  again.  Or,  perhaps  George,  free 
and  careless  though  he  was,  reflected 
that  it  was  not  altogether  the  thing 
for  Charlotte  Pain  to  entertain  him 
alone.  With  all  his  faults,  George 
Godolphin  was  a  gentleman, — and 
Charlotte  was  not  altogether  consti- 
tuted for  a  gentleman's  wife. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  Charlotte,"  he  re- 
marked. "  I  shall  now  have  to  make 
excuses  to  one  only,  instead  of  to  two. 
1  came  to  ask  Mrs.  Verrall  to  allow 


me   to   break    through    my    engage- 
ment.". 

Charlotte  had  a  knave  in  her  hand 
pondering  where  she  could  place  it. 
She  dropped  it  in  her  surprise. 

"  I  must  dine  at  home  to-day,  Char- 
lotte. An  old  friend  of  my  father 
and  mother's,  Mrs.  Briscow,  is  arriv- 
ing for  dinner.     I  cannot  be  absent." 

The  flush  deepened  on  Charlotte's 
face.  "  It  is  unkind  of  you  1"  she  re- 
sentfully said.  "  But  I  knew,  before, 
what  your  promises  are  worth." 

"Unkind?  But,  Charlotte,  I  did 
not  know  until  this  morning  that  Mrs. 
Briscow  was  coming.  There's  nothing 
unkind  about  it." 

"  It  is  unkind  !"  flashed  Charlotte. 
"  If  you  were  not  unkind,  you  would 
not  leave  me  here  by  myself,  to  pass 
a  solitary  evening,  and  play  at  this 
wretched  patience. " 

"  But  I  am  not  going  to  leave  you 
here.  I  wish  to  take  you  back  with 
me  to  Ashlydyat  to  dinner.  If  you 
will  put  on  your  bonnet,  we  can  lie 
walking  thither  at  once." 

"  You  did  not  come,  intending  to 
ask  me." 

"  I  did  not.  I  did  not  know  that 
Mrs.  Verrall  would  be  absent.  But  I 
ask  you  now,  being  alone  as  you  say. 
And  I  intend  to  take  you." 

"  What  will  Miss  Godolphin  say  ?" 

"  Miss  Godolphin  will  be  very  happy 
to  see  you," — which  little  assertion 
Mr.  George  knew  to  contain  more  of 
politeness  than  truth.  "  Will  you  get 
ready,  Charlotte.  I  must  be  return- 
ing." 

Charlotte  pushed  the  cards  from  her 
in  a  heap,  and  came  and  stood  before 
George  Godolphin,  turning  herself 
about  for  his  inspection.  "  Shall  I 
do  without  further  embellishment  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  Admirably,"  gallantly  returned 
George.  "Why  dress  more  for  Ash- 
lydyat than  you  wrould  for  home  ?" 

Charlotte  marched  to  the  glass,  and 
surveyed  herself.  "Just  something 
in  my  hair,"  she  said,  ringing  the  bell. 

A  maid  came  in  by  her  desire,  and 
fastened  some  blue  and  silver  flowers 
in  her  hair.     Charlotte  Pain  wore  her 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


HI 


hair  capriciously, — rarely  two  days 
alike.  To-day  it  was  all  strained  back 
from  the  face, — that  most  trying  of  all 
.styles,  let  the  features  be  ever  so 
pretty.  A  shawl  was  thrown  over 
her  shoulders,  and  then  she  turned  to 
George. 

"  I  am  ready  now." 

"  But  your  bonnet  ?"  returned  that 
gentleman,  who  had  looked  on  with 
laughing  eyes  at  the  mysteries  of  the 
hair-dressing. 

"  I  shall  not  put  on  a  bonnet,"  she 
said.  "  They  can  bring  it  to  me  at 
Ashlydyat,  for  returning  at  night. 
People  won't  meet  us, — the  road's  not 
a  public  road.  And  if  they  should 
meet  us,"  she  added,  laughing,  "they 
will  rejoice  in  the  opportunity  of  see- 
ing me  abroad  like  this.  It  will  be 
food  for  Prior's  Ash." 

So  they  started.  Charlotte  would 
not  take  his  arm, — she  said  he  must 
take  hers, — that  he  needed  support, 
and  she  did  not.  That,  George  would 
not  agree  to, — and  they  strolled  on, 
side  by  side,  resting  on  benches  be- 
tween whiles.  George  found  he  had 
not  much  to  boast  of  yet,  in  the  way 
of  strength. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

AN  INVITATION  TO  ALL-SOULS'  RECTORY. 

"Who's  this  coming  up  ?"  exclaimed 
Charlotte,  when  they  had  nearly  gained 
Ashlydyat,  and  were  resting  for  the 
last  time. 

George  followed  the  direction  of  her 
ayes.  Advancing  towards  Ashlydyat 
was  a  lady, — her  bright-gray  silk  dress 
gleaming  in  the  sun,  a  light  Cashmere 
shawl  folded  round  her.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  lady-like  figure  of 
Mrs.  Hastings. 

"Don't  you  see  who  it  is?"  said 
George. 

"  I  do  now.  Is  she  to  be  one  of 
your  dinner-party  ?" 

"  Not  that  I  am  aware  of." 

Mrs.  Hastings  joined  them.  She 
sat  down  on  the  bench  bv  George's 


side,  affectionately  inquiring  into  his 
state  of  health,  speaking  kindly  and 
truthfully  her  pleasure  at  seeing  him, 
so  far,  well  again.  Whatever  preju- 
dice may  have  been  taken  against 
George  Godolphin  by  the  rector  of 
All-Souls',  it  did  not  extend  to  his 
wife.     She  liked  him  much. 

"  I  am  getting  on  famously,"  said 
George,  in  a  merry  tone.  "  I  have 
promoted  myself  to  one  stick  :  until 
yesterday  I  was  forced  to  be  embel- 
lished with  two.  You  are  going  to 
Ashlydyat,  Mrs  Hastings  ?" 

"  I  wish  to  say  a  few  words  to 
Bessy.  We  have  discovered  some- 
thing not  pleasant  relating  to  one  of 
the  schools  in  which  the  under-mis- 
tress  is  mixed  up.  A  good  deal  of 
deceit  has  been  going  on  in  fact.  Mr. 
Hastings  said  Bessy  should  hear  of  it 
at  once, — that  she  was  as  much  inter- 
ested in  it  as  we  are.  So  I  came 
up." 

Mrs.  Hastings,  in  speaking,  had 
taken  two  or  three  glances  at  Char- 
lotte's head.  That  young  lady  set 
herself  to  explain.  Mr.  George  Go- 
dolphin  had  given  her  an  impromptu 
invitation  to  go  back  with  him  to  dine 
at  Ashlydyat. 

Then  George  explained  that  he  had 
been  engaged  to  dine  at  the  Folly  j 
but  he  found  on  arriving  that  Mrs. 
Yerrall  had  departed  for  London. 
"  My  friends  are  all  kind  to  me,  Mrs. 
Hastings,"  he  observed.  "  They  insist 
upon  it  that  the  change  of  a  few  hours 
must  be  of  benefit  to  me,  and  encum- 
ber themselves  with  the  troubles  of  a 
creachy  invalid." 

"I  am  sure's  there's  nothing  like 
change  and  amusement  for  one  grow- 
ing convalescent,"  said  Charlotte. 

"  Will  you  let  us  contribute  in  some 
little  way  to  it  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Hastings 
of  George.  "  If  a  few  hours  sojourn 
in  our  dull  house  would  be  agreeable 
to  you,  you  know  that  we  should  only 
be  too  happy  for  you  to  try  it." 

"I  should  like  it  of  all  things," 
cried  George,  impulsively.  "  I  can- 
not walk  far  yet  without  resting,  and 
it  is  pleasant  to  sit  a  few  hours  at  my 
walk's   end   before    I   begin  to  start 


142 


THE      SHADOW      OF      AS1ILYDYAT. 


back  again.     I  shall  soon  extend  my 
journeys  to  Prior's  Ash." 

•'  Then  come  to  us  the  first  day  that 
you  feel  yourself  able  to  get  as  far. 
You  will  always  find  some  of  us  at 
home.  We  will  dine  at  any  hour  you 
like,  and  you  shall  choose  your  own 
dinner." 

"  A  bargain,"  said  George. 

They  rose  to  pursue  their  way  to 
Ashlydyat.  Mrs.  Hastings  offered  her 
arm  to  George,  and  he  took  it  with 
thanks.  "  He  would  not  take  mine," 
thought  Charlotte, — and  she  flashed 
an  angry  glance  at  him. 

The  fact  was  that  for  some  consider- 
able time  Charlotte  Pain  had  put  Ma- 
ria Hastings  nearly  out  of  her  head  as 
regarded  her  relations  to  George  Go- 
dolphin.  Whatever  cause  she  may 
have  seen  at  Broom-head  to  believe  he 
was  attached  to  Maria,  the  impression 
had  since  faded  away.  In  the  spring, 
lie  fore  his  illness,  George  had  been 
much  more  with  her  than  with  Maria. 
This  was  not  entirely  George's  fault : 
the  rectory  did  not  court  him, — Char- 
lotte Pain  and  the  Folly  did.  A  week 
had  now  passed  since  Mr.  Verrall's 
departure  for  town,  when  George  and 
his  two  sticks  appeared  at  the  Folly 
for  the  first  time  after  his  illness  ;  and 
not  a  day  of  that  week  since  but 
George  and  Charlotte  had  met.  Al- 
together her  hopes  of  winning  the 
prize  had  gone  up  to  enthusiastic  heat : 
and  Charlotte  believed  the  greatest 
prize  in  the  world — taking  all  his  ad- 
vantages collectively — to  be  George 
Godolphin. 

George  went  at  once  to  his  sister 
Janet's  chamber.  She  was  in  it,  mak- 
ing herself  ready  for  dinner,  after 
bringing  her  aged  guest,  Mrs.  Briscow, 
from  the  station.  He  knocked  at  the 
door  with  his  stick,  and  was  told  to 
enter. 

Janet  was  before  the  glass  in  her 
black  silk  dress,  trimmed  heavily  with 
crape  still.  She  was  putting  on  her 
sober  cap, — a  white  one  with  black 
ribbons  interspersed.  Janet  Godolphin 
had  taken  to  wear  caps  at  thirty  years 
of  age  :  her  hair,  like  Thomas's,  was 
thin ;  and  she  was  not  troubled  with 


cares  of  making  herself  appearyounger 
than  she  was. 

"  Come  in,  George,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing to  him  without  any  appearance  of 
surprise. 

"  See  how  good  I  am,  Janet,"  he 
cried,  throwing  himself  wearily  into  a 
chair.  "  I  have-  come  back  to  dine 
with  you." 

"  I  saw  you  from  the  window.  You 
have  been  walking  too  far  !" 

"  Only  to  the  Folly  and  back.  But 
I  sauntered  about  looking  at  the  flow- 
ers, and  that  tires  one  far  worse  than 
bearing  on  steadily." 

"  Ay.  Lie  yourself  down  on  that 
couch  at  full  length,  lad.  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings is  here,  I  see.  And  was  that 
other  Charlotte  Pain  ?" 

"Yes," replied  George,  disregarding 
the  injunction  to  lie  down. 

"  Did  she  come  from  the  Folly  in 
that  guise, — nothing  on  her  head  but 
those  flowers  ?  I  could  see  no  bonnet 
even  in  her  hand." 

"It  is  to  be  sent  after  her.  Janet," 
— passing  by  quickly  the  other  matter, 
— "  she  has  come  to  dine  with  us." 

Miss  Godolphin  turned  round  in 
amazement  and  fixed  her  eyes  re- 
proachfully on  George.  "  To  dine 
with  us  ? — to-day  ?  Have  you  been 
asking  her  ?" 

"Janet,  I  could  not  well  help  my- 
self. When  I  got  to  Lady  Godol- 
phin's  Folly,  I  found  Charlotte  alone, 
— Mrs.Verrall  has  departed  for  town. 
To  break  through  my  engagement 
there  I  proposed  that  Charlotte  should 
come  here." 

"  Nay,"  said  Janet,  "  your  engage- 
ment was  already  broken  if  Mrs.Ver- 
rall was  away." 

"  Not  so.  Charlotte  expected  me 
to  remain." 

"  Herself  your  sole  entertainer  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so." 

A  severe  expression  rose  to  Miss 
Godolphin's  lips,  and  remained  there. 
"  It  is  most  unsuitable, — Charlotte 
Pain's  being  here  to-day,  she  resumed. 
"  The  changes  which  have  taken  place, 
render  our  meeting  with  Mrs.  Briscow 
a  sad  one  :  no  stranger  ought  to  be  at 
table.     Least  of  all,  Charlotte  Pain. 


T  II  E      3  II  A  I)  0  W      OF      .VS1ILYDYAT. 


143 


Her  conversation  is  at  times  unfem- 
nine." 

"  How  can  you  say  so,  Janet  ?"  he 
involuntarily  exclaimed. 

"  Should  she  launch  into  some  of  her 
favorite  topics,  her  riding,  and  her 
horses,  and  her  dogs,  it  will  sound  un- 
feminine  to  Mrs.  Briscow's  ears.  In  her 
young  days, — in  my  days  also,  George, 
for  the  matter  of  that, — these  subjects 
were  deemed  more  suitable  to  men's 
lips  than  to  young  women's." 

"  I  will  tell  her  that  the  good  lady 
is  of  the  antediluvian  school,  and  drop 
her  a  hint  to  mind  her  manners,"  cried 
George,  with  the  mocking  expression 
that  Janet  never  liked. 

"  George,  had  your  mother  lived,  it 
would  have  been  a  sore  day  to  her, 
the  one  that  brought  the  news  that 
you  had  fixed  your  mind  on  Charlotte 
Pain." 

"It  was  not  to  my  father,  at  any 
rate,"  George  could  not  help  saying. 

"  And  was  it  possible  that  you  did 
not  see  how  Charlotte  Pain  played  her 
cards  before  your  father  ?"  resumed 
Janet.  "  Not  a  word  that  could  offend 
his  prejudices  as  a  refined  gentleman, 
did  she  ever  suffer  to  drop.  I  saw, 
if  you  did  not." 

"  You  manage  to  see  a  great  deal 
that  the  rest  of  us  don't,  Janet, — or 
you  fancy  that  you  do." 

"  It  is  no  fancy,  lad.  I'd  not  like  to 
discourage  a  thing  that  you  have  set 
your  heart  upon, — I'd  rather  go  a  mile 
out  of  my  way  than  do  it :  but  I  stand 
next  door  to  a  mother  to  you,  and  I 
can  but  warn  you  that  you  will  repent 
it  if  you  ever  suffer  Charlotte  Pain  to 
he  more  to  you  than  she  now  is." 

George  rose.  "  If  you'll  suffer  Char- 
lotte to  be  one  of  us  to-day  with  a 
good  grace,  Janet,  I'll  tell  you  a 
secret." 

"Eh,  lad,  but  I  must  suffer  her. 
Have  not  ye  brought  her  here  ?" 

"  But  with  a  good  grace,  Janet." 

"  It's  of  little  consequence,  that," 
said  Janet.  "  I  shall  not  receive  a 
guest  at  my  table  with  a  frown  upon 
my  brow." 

"  Then  now  I'll  set  your  mind  at 
rest,  Janet.     It  has  never  been  my 


intention  to  marry  Charlotte  Pain: 
and — so  far  as  I  believe  at  present — 
it  never  will  be." 

Janet  Godolphin's  heart  leaped 
within  her.  "  I'm  thankful  to  hear 
it !"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone.  "  Then 
she's  not  going  with  you  abroad, 
George  ?" 

"  Scarcely,"  returned  George  ;  and 
he  laughed  at  the  notion  as  he  quitted 
the  room. 

The  dinner  went  off  pleasantly. 
Mrs.  Briscow  was  a  charming  old 
lady,  although  she  was  of  the  "  ante- 
diluvian" school,  and  Charlotte  was 
on  her  best  behavior,  and  half  fasci- 
nated Mrs.  Briscow.  George,  like  a 
trespassing  child,  received  several  hints 
from  Janet  that  bed  might  be  desira- 
ble for  him,  but  he  ingeniously  ignored 
them,  and  sat  on.  Charlotte's  bonnet 
and  an  attendant  arrived,  and  Thomas 
Godolphin  put  on  his  hat  to  see  her  to 
the  Folly. 

"  I  need  not  trouble  you,  Mr.  Go- 
dolphin.  I  shall  not  get  run  awav 
with." 

"I  think  it  will  be  as  well  that  I 
should  see  you  do  not,"  said  he, 
smiling. 

It  was  scarcely  dark.  The  clock 
had  not  struck  ten,  and  the  night  was 
starlight.  Thomas  Godolphin  gave 
her  his  arm,  and  the  maid  walked  be- 
hind them. 

"  Let  us  take  the  path  by  the  ash- 
trees  !"  Charlotte  exclaimed. 

"  It  is  farther  round." 

"  Not  much  farther.  I  often  feel  a 
sort  of  superstitious  hankering  to  look 
at  the  Dark  Plain  at  night ;  but  I  feel 
timid  at  going  thither  alone,  since  the 
time  that  I  saw  something  there." 

"  What  did  you  see  ?" 

"  The  shadow  that  people  talk  of. 
I  know  I  saw  it,  and  you  need  not 
smile  at  me,  Mr.  Godolphin.  This  is 
the  turning.     Let  us  go  !" 

Thus  urged, — for  Charlotte  went 
that  way  and  pulled  him  with  her, — 
Thomas  Godolphin  had  no  plea  for 
declining ;  and  they  shortly  emerged 
from  the  trees  in  view  of  the  Dark 
Plain.  Charlotte  halted.  I  am  look- 
ing for  the  shadow,"  she  said. 


144: 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


"  I  do  not  see  any  shadow,"rcmarked 
Thomas  Godolphin.  And  it  was  now 
his  turn  to  draw  her  on, — which  he 
did,  when  she  had  apparently  satisfied 
herself.  There  was  no  appearance  of 
any  shadow, — of  any  thing  unusual. 
The  arch  and  the  gorse-bushes  were 
tolerably  visible  in  the  starlight : 
nothing  else.  Thomas  drew  her  on, 
the  smile,  which  looked  like  an  incred- 
ulous one,  still  hovering  on  his  lips. 

"  I  suppose  it  will  not  do  for  me  to 
ask  you  in,  as  there's  nobody  at  home," 
said  Charlotte,  with  one  of  her  lapses 
into  freedom,  when  they  arrived  at  the 
Folly. 

"  Thank  you.  I  cannot  stay  to- 
night." 

He  shook  hands  with  her  and  turned 
away.  Charlotte  stood  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  turned  on  her  heel  and 
entered  the  hall.  The  first  thing  that 
caught  her  notice  was  a  hat ;  next  a 
traveling-coat.  They  had  not  been 
there  when  she  left  that  afternoon. 

"  Then  Verrall's  back  !"  she  men- 
tally exclaimed. 

Hasting  into  the  dining-room,  she 
saw,  seated  at  a  table,  drinking  bran- 
dv-and-water,  nor  Mr.  Verrall,  but  Ro- 
dolf  Pain. 

"  Good  gracious  !"  exclaimed  Char- 
lotte, with  more  of  surprise  in  her  tone 
than  satisfaction,  "have  you  come?" 

"  Come  to  find  an  empty  house," 
rejoined  Mr.  Pain.  "  Where's  Mrs. 
Verrall  ?  They  tell  me  she  is  gone  to 
London." 

"  She  is,"  replied  Charlotte.  "  Yer- 
rall  neither  came  back  nor  wrote  ;  she 
got  a  restless  fit  upon  her,  and  started 
off  this  morning  to  him." 

"  Verrall  won't  thank  her,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Pain.  "He  is  up  to  his 
eyes  in  business." 

"  Good  or  bad  business  ?"  asked 
Charlotte. 

"  Both.  We  have  got  into  a  mess, 
and  Verrall's  not  yet  out  of  it." 

"  Through  what  ?  Through  whom  ?" 
she  questioned. 

Rodolf  Pain  gave  his  shoulders  an 
upward  jerk,  as  if  he  had  been  a 
Frenchman.  "  It  need  not  trouble 
you,  Charlotte." 


"  Sonne  one  came  down  here  from 
London  a  week  ago, — a  Mr.  Appleby. 
Is  it  through  him  ?  Verrall  seemed 
strangely  put  out  at  his  coming." 

Mr.  Pain  nodded  his  head.  "  They 
were  such  idiots  in  the  office  as  to  give 
Appleby  the  address  here.  I  have 
seen  Verrall  in  a  tolerable  passion 
once  or  twice  in  my  life  ;  but  I  never 
saw  him  in  such  a  one  as  he  went  into 
when  he  came  up.  They'll  not  forget 
it  in  a  hurry.  He  lays  the  blame  on 
me,  remotely ;  says  I  must  have  left 
a  letter  about  with  the  address  on  it. 
I  know  I  have  done  nothing  of  the 
sort." 

"But  what  is  it,  Rodolf?  Any 
thing  very  bad  ?" 

"  Bad  enough.  But  it  can  be  rem- 
edied. Let  Verrall  alone  for  get- 
ting out  of  pits.  I  wish,  though,  we 
had  never  set  eyes  on  that  fellow, 
Appleby  !" 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  Rodolf." 

Mr.  Rodolf  declined.  "You  could 
do  no  good,"  said  he,  "  and  business 
is  not  fitted  for  ladies'  ears." 

"  I  don't  care  to  know  it,"  said 
Charlotte.  "It's  no  concern  of  mine  : 
but,  somehow,  that  man  Appleby  in- 
terested me.  As  to  business  not  be- 
ing fitted  for  my  ears,  I  should  make 
a  better  hand  at  business  than  some 
of  you  men  make." 

"  Upon  my  word  I  think  you  would, 
Charlotte.  I  have  often  said  it.  But 
you  are  one  in  a  thousand." 

"  Have  you  had  any  thing  to  eat 
since  you  came  in  ?" 

"  They  brought  me  some  supper. 
It  has  just  gone  away." 

"  I  had  better  inquire  whether  there's 
aroom  ready?"  she  remarked,,  moving 
towards  the  bell. 

"  It's  all  done,  Charlotte.  I  have 
told  them  I  have  come  to  stay.  Just 
sit  down,  and  let  me  talk  to  you." 

"  Shall  you  stay  long  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  till  I  hear  from  Verrall 
to-morrow.  I  may  be  leaving  again 
to-morrow  night,  or  I  may  be  here  for 
interminable  weeks.  The  office  is  to 
be  clear  of  Mr.  Verrall  just  now,  do 
you  understand  ?" 

Charlotte    apparently    did    under- 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


145 


stand.  She  took  her  seat  in  a  chair 
near,  listlessly  enough.  Something; 
in  her  manner  would  have  told  an 
accurate  observer  that  she  could  very 
well  have  dispensed  with  the  com- 
pany of  Rodolf  Pain.  He,  however, 
saw  nothing  of  that.  He'  took  his 
cigar-case  from  his  pocket,  selected  a 
cigar,  and  then,  by  way  of  sport,  held 
the  case  out  to  Charlotte. 

"  Will  you  take  one  ?" 

For  answer,  she  dashed  it  out  of 
his  hand  half  way  across  the  room. 
And  she  did  it  in  anger,  too. 

"  How  unequal  you  are  !"  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  rose  to  pick  up  his  prop- 
erty. "  There  are  times  when  you 
can  take  a  joke  pleasantly,  and  laugh 
at  it," 

He  sat  down  again,  lighted  his 
cigar,  and  smoked  a  few  minutes  in 
silence.  Then  he  turned  to  her. 
"  Don't  you  think  it  is  time,  Char- 
lotte, that  you  and  I  brought  our- 
selves to  an  anchor  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't,"  she  bluntly  answered. 

"But  I  say  it  is,"  he  resumed. 
"  And  I  mean  it  to  be  done." 

"You  mean !" 

Something  in  the  tone  aroused  him, 
and  he  gazed  at  her  with  surprise. 
"  You  are  not  going  from  your  prom- 
ise, Charlotte  !" 

"I  don't  remember  that  I  made  any 
distinct  promise,"  said  she. 

Mr.  Rodolf  Pain  grew  heated.  "You 
know  that  you  did,  Charlotte.  You 
know  that  you  engaged  yourself  irre- 
vocably to  me " 

"  Irrevocably  !"  she  slightly  inter- 
rupted. "  How  you  misappropriate 
words  !" 

"  It  was  as  irrevocable  as  a  prom- 
ise can  be.  Have  you  not  led  me  on, 
this  twelvemonth  past,  believing  month 
after  month  that  you  would  be  my 
wife  the  next  ?  And,  month  after 
month,  you  have  put  me  off  upon  the 
most  frivolous  pretexts  !" 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  drew  up  his 
little  figure  to  its  utmost  height  in  his 
excitement,  and  pushed  back  his  light 
hair  from  his  small  insignificant  face, 
— a  face  that  betrayed  not  too  much 
9 


strength  of  any  sort,  physical,  moral, 
or  intellectual.  Charlotte  retained  un- 
broken calmness. 

"  Rodolf,  I  don't  think  it  would  do," 
she  said,  with  an  air  of  reasoning  can- 
dor. "I  have  thought  it  over  ami 
over,  and  that's  why  I  have  put  you 
off.  It  is  not  well  that  we  should 
all  be  so  closely  connected  together. 
Better  get  new  ties,  that  will  shelter 
us,  in  case  a — a " 

"A  what  ?"  asked  Rodolf  Pain,  his 
eyes  strained  on  Charlotte  through 
their  very  light  lashes. 

"  In  case  a  smash  comes.  That — 
if  we  are  all  in  the  same  boat — would 
ruin  us  all.  Better  that  you  and  I 
should  form  other  connections." 

"You  are  talking  great  nonsense," 
he  angrily  said.  "A  smash  ! — to  us ! 
Can't  you  trust  Yerrall  better  than 
that  ?" 

"  Why,  you  say  that,  even  at  this 
present  moment " 

"You  are  wrong,  Charlotte,"  he 
vehemently  interrupted;  "you  mis- 
understood me  entirely.  Things  go 
wrong  in  business  temporarily ;  they 
must  do  so  in  business  of  all  sorts ; 
but  they  right  themselves  again. 
Why !  do  you  know  what  Verral! 
made  last  year  V 

"A  great  deal." 

"  My  little  petty  share  was  two 
thousand  pounds :  and  that  is  as  a 
drop  of  Avater  to  the  ocean,  compared 
with  his.  Whatever  has  put  you  upon 
these  foolish  fancies  ?" 

"Prudence,"  returned  Charlotte. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  was  the  plain 
answer.  "  You  are  trying  to  blind 
me.  You  are  laying  yourself  out  for 
higher  game,  and,  to  shut  my  eyes, 
and  gain  time  to  see  if  you  can  play 
it  out,  you  concoct  a  story  of  '  pru- 
dence' to  me.  It's  one  or  the  other 
of  those  Godolphins." 

"  The  Godolphins  !"  mockingly  re- 
peated Charlotte.  "  You  are  clever  ! 
The  one  will  never  marry  as  long  as 
the  world  lasts  ;  the  other's  dead." 

"  Dead  !"  echoed  Rodolf  Pain. 

"As  good  as  dead.  He's  like  a 
ghost,  and  he  is  being  sent  off  for  an 


U6 


THE     SHADOW     OF     ASHLYDYAT, 


interminable  period  to  some  warmer 
climate.  How  ridiculous  you  are, 
Rodolf!" 

"  Charlotte,  I'll  take  care  of  ways 
and  means.  I'll  take  care  of  you  and 
your  interests.  Only  fix  the  time 
when  you  will  be  mine." 

"Then  I  won't,  Rodolf.  I  don't 
care  to  marry  yet  awhile.  I'll  see 
about  it  when  the  next  hunting-sea- 
son shall  be  over." 

Rodolf  Pain  opened  his  eyes.  "  The 
hunting-season!"  he  cried.  "What 
has  that  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  Were  you  my  husband,  you  would 
be  forbidding  me  to  hunt ;  you  don't 
like  my  doing  it  now.  So,  for  the 
present,  I'll  remain  the  mistress  of 
my  own  actions." 

"Another  lame  excuse,"  he  said, 
knitting  his  brow.  "  You  will  take 
very  good  care  always  to  remain  en- 
tire mistress  of  your  own  actions, 
whether  married  or  single." 

Charlotte  laughed,  a  ringing  laugh 
of  power.  It  spoke  significantly 
enough  to  Mr.  Rodolf  Pain.  He 
would  have  renewed  the  discussion, 
but  she  peremptorily  declined,  and 
shaking  hands  with  him,  wished  him 
good-night. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  REVELATION  TO  ALL   SOULS'   RECTOR. 

George  Godolpihn  was  not  long  in 
availing  himself  of  the  invitation  to 
All  Souls'  rectory.  The  very  day  after 
it  was  given,  he  was  on  his  way  to  it. 
He  started  with  his  stick ;  made  one 
halt  in  a  shop  on  his  road,  and  arrived 
about  twelve  o'clock. 

Not  a  soul  was  at  home  but  Maria. 
Mrs.  Hastings,  who  had  not  expected 
him  for  some  days, — for  she  did  not 
suppose  his  strength  would  allow  him 
to  get  so  far  yet, — had  gone  out  with 
Grace.  Mr.  Hastings  was  in  the 
church  and  Maria  was  alone. 

She  sat  in  that  one  pleasant  room 
of  the  house, — the  long  room  looking 


to  the  lawn  and  the  flower-beds.  She 
looked  so  pretty,  so  refined,  so  quiet 
in  her  simple  dress  of  white  muslin 
spotted  with  violet,  as  she  pursued 
her  employment, — that  of  drawing, 
never  suspecting  how  she  was  going 
to  be  interrupted. 

The  door  of  the  porch  stood  open, 
as  it  often  did  in  summer,  and  George 
Godolphin  entered  without  the  cere- 
mony of  knocking.  The  hall  was  well 
matted,  and  Maria  did  not  hear  him 
cross  it.  A  slight  tap  at  the  room 
door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Maria,  supposing 
it  to  be  one  of  the  servants. 

He  came  in  and  stood  in  the  door- 
way, smiling  down  upon  her.  So 
shadowy,  so  thin !  his  face  utterly 
pale,  his  dark  blue  eyes  unnaturally 
large,  his  wavy  hair  damp  with  the 
exertion  of  walking.  Maria's  heart 
stood  still.  She  rose  from  her  seat, 
unable  to  speak,  the  color  going  and 
coming  in  her  transparent  skin  ;  and 
when  she  quietly  moved  forward  to 
welcome  him,  her  heart  found  its  ac- 
tion again,  and  bounded  on  in  tumult- 
uous beats.  The  very  intensity  of 
her  emotion  caused  her  demeanor  to 
be  almost  unnaturally  still. 

"  Are  you  glad  to  see  me,  Maria  ?" 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  met 
since  his  illness :  the  first  time  for 
more  than  four  months, — all  that 
while  separated  ;  all  that  while  fear- 
ing that  he  was  about  to  be  removed 
by  death  !  As  he  touched  Maria,  her 
emotion  broke  forth  :  she  burst  into 
tears  :  and  surely  it  may  be  excused 
to  her. 

He  was  scarcely  less  agitated.  He 
clasped  her  tenderly  to  him,  and  kissed 
the  tears  from  her  face,  his  own  eye- 
lashes glistening.  There  was  no  great 
harm  in  it  after  all ;  for,  that  each 
looked  forward  to  the  hope  of  being 
bound  together  at  no  great  distance  of 
time  by  nearer  and  dearer  ties,  was 
indisputable.       At    least,    no     harm 

would  have  come  of  it,  if Look 

at  the  window. 

They  did.  And  there  they  saw  the 
awful  face  of  the  rector  glaring  in  up- 
on them,  and  by  its  side, — the  more 


THE     SHADOW     OF     A  S  II  L  Y  T)  Y  A  T , 


147 


awful  of  the  two, — that  of  Charlotte 
Pain. 

Why  had  she  follower!  George  Go- 
dolphin  to  the  rectory  ?  Was  she  de- 
termined not  to  allow  him  a  single 
chance  to  escape  her  ?  She,  bearing 
in  remembrance  the  compact  with  Mrs. 
Hastings,  had  watched  George  Godol- 
phin's  movements  that  morning  from 
the  windows  of  the  Folly;  had  watched 
the  road  leading  from  Ashlydyat  to 
Prior's  Ash.  She  saw  George  and 
his  stick  go  tottering  down  it;  and 
by-and-by  she  put  on  her  things  and 
went  out  too,  imperatively  declining 
the  escort  of  Mr.  Rodolf  Pain. 

Her  intention  was  to  make  a  call 
at  the  rectory, — all  unconscious,  of 
course,  that  she  should  find  Mr. 
George  Godolphin  there.  By  dint  of 
a  little  by-play  with  Mrs.  Hastings, — 
who  was  too  thoroughly  a  lady  to  be 
given  to  suspicion, — she  might  get  an 
invitation  to  remain  also  for  the  day. 
With  these  very  laudable  intentions 
Charlotte  arrived  opposite  All  Souls' 
church,  where  she  caught  sight  of  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Hastings  emerging 
from  its  door.  She  crossed  the  church- 
yard, and  accosted  him. 

"Is  Mrs.  Hastings  at  home,  do  you 
know?     I  am  going  to  call  upon  her." 

Now,  Charlotte  was  no  great  favor- 
ite of  that  gentleman's  ;  nevertheless, 
being  a  gentleman,  he  answered  her 
cordially,  as  he  shook  her  by  the  hand. 
He  believed  Mrs.  Hastings  and  Grace 
were  out,  he  said,  but  Maria  was  at 
home. 

"I  am  moped  to  death  !"  exclaimed 
Charlotte,  as  she  and  Mr.  Hastings 
entered  the  private  gate  to  the  rectory- 
garden.  Mrs.  Yerrall  is  gone  to  Lon- 
don, and  there  am  I !  I  came  out  in- 
tending to  go  the  round  of  the  town 
till  I  could  find  some  Samaritans  or 
other  who  would  take  compassion  on 
me,  and  let  me  stay  an  hour  or  two 
with  them." 

Mr.  Hastings  gave  no  particular  re- 
ply. He  did  not  make  for  the  side- 
door  of  the  house, — his  usual  entrance 
from  the  church, — but  turned  towards 
the  front,  that  he  might  usher  in  Char- 
lotte in  state.     This  took  them  bv  the 


windows  of  the  drawing-room  :  and 
there  they  saw — what  they  did  see. 
Mr.  Hastings,  in  his  astonishment, 
halted  :  Charlotte  halted  also,  as  you 
may  be  very  sure. 

George  was  the  first  to  see  them, 
and  a  word  of  anger  broke  from  his 
lips.  Maria  hastily  raised  her  head 
from  its  resting-place, — and  felt  almost 
as  if  she  should  die.  To  be  seen  thus 
by  Charlotte  Pain  was  bad  enough  : 
but  by  her  strict  father  !  Her  face 
grew  white. 

George  Godolphin  saw  the  signs. 
"  My  darling,  only  be  calm  !  Leave 
all  to  me." 

That  an  explanation  was  forced  up- 
on him  somewhat  prematurely,  was 
undoubted.  But  it  was  no  unwelcome 
explanation.  Nay,  in  the  second  mo- 
ment, he  was  deeming  it  the  very  best 
thing  that  could  have  happened  ;  for 
certain  visions  of  taking  Maria  with 
him  into  exile  had  crossed  his  brain 
latterly.  He  would  try  hard  now  to 
get  them  realized.  It  is  true  he  would 
have  preferred,  all  things  considered, 
not  to  speak  before  Miss  Charlotte 
Pain  ;  but  necessity,  as  you  know,  has 
no  law. 

The  rector  came  in  at  the  door, — 
Charlotte  following.  "  Mr.  George  Go- 
dolphin !"  he  frigidly  began;  but 
George  interrupted  what  he  would 
have  further  said. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said, 
taking  a  step  forward  ;  "  allow  me  one 
word  of  explanation  before  you  cast 
blame  to  me.  I  was  about  asking 
your  daughter  to  be  my  wife.  Will 
you  give  her  to  me  ?" 

Mr.  Hastings  looked  like  a  man 
confounded.  That  he  was  intensely 
surprised  at  the  words  was  evident : 
perhaps  he  half  doubted  whether  Mr. 
George  Godolphin  was  playing  with 
him.  He  cast  a  severe  glance  at  Ma- 
ria. George  had  taken  her  on  his 
arm,  and  she  stood  there  before  him, 
her  head  drooping,  her  eyelashes  rest- 
ing on  her  white  cheek.  As  for  Char- 
lotte Pain  ? — well,  you  should  have 
seen  her. 

Ah  no,  there  was  no  deception. 
George  was  in  true  earnest,  and  Mr. 


148 


THE      SIIADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


Hastings  saw  that  he  was.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  beseechingly  on  those  of 
Mr.  Hastings,  and  emotion  had  brought 
the  crimson  hectic  to  his  wasted  cheek. 

"  Do  not  blame  Maria,  sir,"  he  re- 
sumed. "  She  is  innocent  of  all  offence, 
and  dutiful  as  innocent.  Were  you 
to  interpose  your  veto  between  us, 
and  deny  her  to  me,  I  know  that  she 
would  obey  you,  even  though  the 
struggle  killed  her.  Mr.  Hastings, 
we  have  loved  each  other  for  some 
time  past :  and  I  should  have  spoken 
to  you  before,  but  for  my  illness  inter- 
vening. Will  you  give  her  to  me  at 
once,  and  let  her  share  my  exile  ?" 

Mr.  Hastings  had  no  insuperable 
objection  to  George  Godolphin.  That 
report  had  given  to  Mr.  George  credit 
for  bushels  and  bushels  of  wild  oats, 
which  he  would  have  to  sow,  was 
certain  :  but  in  this  respect  he  was  no 
worse  than  many  others,  and  marriage 
is  supposed  to  be  a  cure  for  youthful 
follies.  Mr.  Hastings  had  once  sus- 
pected that  Maria  was  acquiring  more 
liking  for  George  than  was  good  for 
her :  hence  his  repulsion  of  George  ; 
for  he  believed  that  he  was  destined 
for  Charlotte  Pain.  Even  now,  he 
oould  not  comprehend  how  it  was, 
and  the  prominent  feeling  of  his  mind 
was  surprised  perplexity. 

"  I  love  her  as  my  own  life,  sir. 
I  will  strive  to  render  her  happy." 

"  I  cannot  understand  it,"  said  Mr. 
Hastings,  dropping  his  tone  of  anger. 
"  I  was  under  the  impression, — I  beg 
your  pardon,  Miss  Pain,"  turning  to 
her, — but  I  was  under  the  impression 
that  you  were  engaged  to  Mr.  George 
Godolphin." 

If  ever  Charlotte  Pain  had  need  to 
fight  for  composure,  she  had  dire  need 
then.  Her  hopes  were  suddenly  hurled 
to  the  ground,  and  she  had  the  cruel 
mortification  of  hearing  him  whom 
she  best  loved,  reject  and  spurn  her 
for  a  long-hated  rival.  If  her  love 
for  George  Godolphin  was  not  very 
dec^>  or  refined, — and  it  was  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other, — she  did  love 
him  after  a  fashion  ;  better,  at  any 
rate,  than  she  loved  anybody  else. 
The  position  she  would   take  up  as 


George  Godolphin 's  wife  was  hurled 
from  her ;  and  perhaps  Miss  Char- 
lotte cared  for  that  more  than  she  did 
for  George  himself.  The  Yerralls  and 
their  appearance  of  wealth  were  all 
very  well  in  their  places, — as  George 
had  said  by  the  dogs, — but  what  were 
they  compared  to  the  ancient  Godol- 
phins  ?  There  are  moments  which 
drive  a  woman  to  the  verge  of  mad- 
ness, and  Charlotte  was  so  driven 
now.  Any  thing  like  control  of  tem- 
per was  quite  beyond  her :  and  mal- 
evolence entered  her  heart. 

"  I  engaged  to  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin !"  she  echoed,  taking  up  the  rec- 
tor's words  in  a  shrieking  tone,  which 
she  could  not  have  helped  had  her  life 
depended  on  it.  "  Engaged  to  a  mar- 
ried man  ?   Thank  you,  Mr.  Hastings. " 

"  A  married  man !"  repeated  the 
puzzled  rector, — whilst  George  turned 
his  questioning  eyes  upon  her. 

"  Yes,  a  married  m*n,"  she  con- 
tinued, her  throat  heaving,  her  breath 
panting.  "  They  may  have  chosen  to 
hoodwink  you,  to  blind  you,  Mr.  Hast- 
ings, but  I  saw  what  I  saw.  When 
your  daughter — innocent  Miss  Maria, 
there — ctwne  home  from  Scotland,  she 
had  been  married  to  George  Godol- 
phin. A  false  priest,  a  sort  of  Gretna- 
Green  man,  had  married  them :  and 
I  saw  it  done,  i"  engaged  to  George 
Godolphin  !" 

Charlotte  Pain  knew  that  the  words 
were  false, — called  up  to  gratify  her 
rage  in  that  angry  moment.  Scarcely 
any  thing  else  that  she  could  conjure 
up  would  so  have  told  upon  the  rec- 
tor. In  his  straightforward  right  do- 
ing, to  his  practical  mind  of  sense,  a 
clandestine  marriage  appeared  one  of 
the  cardinal  sins.  His  face  turned 
pale,  and  his  eye  flashed  as  he  grasped 
Maria's  shoulder. 

"  Girl  1  is  this  so  ?" 

"  Oh,  papa,  no  !"  returned  Maria, 
with  streaming  eyes.  "  It  is  a  wicked 
untruth.  Charlotte  !  to  tell  such  an 
untruth  is  wicked.  Papa,  I  affirm  to 
you " 

"  Hush,  my  dearest,"  interposed 
George,  "  let  me  deal  with  this.  Mr. 
Hastings,  it  is  a  thing  that  you  need 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


149 


scarcely  ask  of  Maria, — whether  it  is 
true,  or  untrue.  Is  she  one,  think 
vou,  to  enter  into  a  clandestine  mar- 
riage? You  know  better,  sir.  Nothing 
has  ever  passed  between  myself  and 
Maria  more  than  has  passed  before 
you  this  day.  Were  I  base  enough 
to  solicit  her  to  enter  into  one, — and 
vou  need  not  think  of  me  a  whit  bet- 
ter than  you  choose, — Maria  would 
only  repulse  me.  Miss  Pain,  will  you 
unsay  your  words  ?" 

For  answer,  Miss  Pain  entered  into 
a  scornful  account  of  Sandy  Bray  and 
his  doings.  She  reiterated  her  asser- 
tion. She  declared  that  she  saw  Ma- 
ria and  George  standing  before  him, 
their*  hands  clasped  together  in  the 
attitude  of  a  couple  being  married, 
when  she  entered  suddenly  with  a 
message  from  Lady  Godolphin,  and 
she  finished  up  by  saying  she  had 
always  believed  since  that  they  were 
married,  only  it  had  been  no  business 
of  hers  to  proclaim  it.  The  rector's 
brow  grew  moist  again,  and  George 
Godolphin  looked  significantly  at  Char- 
lotte.    He  spoke  significantly,  too. 

"  No,  you  have  not  thought  it,  Char- 
lotte." And  he  turned  and  related  to 
Mr.  Hastings  as  much  as  he  knew  of 
Sandy  Bray,  emphatically  repeating 
his  denial.  "  If  you  will  take  a  mo- 
ment's thought,  sir,  you  may  be  con- 
vinced that  the  truth  lies  with  me. 
I  am  beseeching  you  to  give  Maria  to 
me ;  I  crave  it  of  you  as  the  greatest 
boon  that  I  can  ask  in  life.  I  know 
not  whether  you  will  accede  to  my 
petition :  but  what  argument  could  I 
urge,  to  induce  it,  with  half  the  force 
as  the  one  that  she  was  already  my 
wife  in  secret  ?  Nay,  were  she  indeed 
my  wife  in  secret,  why  should  I  care 
for  the  ceremony  to  be  repeated  ?  I 
should  only  have  to  confess  it,  and 
throw  myself  and  Maria  upon  your 
forgiveness.  I  heartily  wish  it  had 
been  so  !" 

"  You  are  bold,  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin !" 

"  Bold,  sir  ?"  returned  George,  with 
emotion.  "  Not  more  bold  than  I 
ought  to  be.  I  don't  care  to  defend 
myself,  but  I  do  care  to  defend  Maria. 


Give  her  to  me,  Mr.  Hastings  !  give 
her  to  me  !"  he  added,  changing  his 
tone  to  one  of  tender  entreaty ;  "  I 
will  defend  her  through  life  with  my 
best  blood." 

Mr.  Hastings  looked  at  him ;  he 
looked  at  the  tearful,  but  certainly  not 
guilty  countenance  of  his  daughter ; 
he  turned  and  looked  at  the  furious 
one  of  Charlotte  Pain.  "  Step  this 
way,"  he  said  to  George  Godolphin. 
"  I  would  speak  to  you  alone." 

He  took  him  to  another  room 
and  shut  the  door.  "  I  want  the 
truth,"  he  said,  "  upon  one  or  two 
points " 

"  Mr.  Hastings,"  said  George,  draw- 
ing himself  up,  "  I  have  told  you  noth- 
ing but  the  truth  upon  all  points." 

"  Were  you  never  engaged  to 
Charlotte  Pain  ?"  proceeded  Mr.  Hast- 
ings, taking  no  notice  of  the  interrup- 
tion. 

"  Never.  I  never  sought  or  wished 
to  be." 

"  Then  what  did  your  good  father, 
Sir  George,  mean  when  he  alluded  to 
it  the  night  he  was  dying  ?  He  asked 
if  you  and  Charlotte  were  married 
vet :  and  you  replied,  '  Plenty  of  time 
for  that,'" 

"  I  said  it  merely  in  answer  to  his 
words  :  it  was  not  an  hour  for  dissent 
or  explanation.  He  was  not  conscious 
of  what  he  said." 

"  Had  you  expressed  to  him  any 
particular  liking  for  Charlotte  Pain  ?" 

"  I  had  not  at  anytime.  Sir  George 
believed  Miss  Pain  had  a  large  for- 
tune, and  he  recommended  me  more 
than  once  to  think  of  her  and  it.  He 
said  she  was  a  handsome  girl,  and 
none  the  worse  for  possessing  a  for- 
tune. He  had  heard  she  would  have 
thirty  thousand  pounds.  I  used  to 
laugh  it  off.  I  cared  for  Maria  too 
much  to  cast  a  thought  to  Charlotte 
Pain.  That  is  the  whole  truth,  Mr. 
Hastings,  on  my  honor." 

"  Would  he  have  objected  to  Maria?" 

"To  Maria  I  am  certain  he  would 
not  have  objected.  To  her  want  of 
fortune  he  might.  But  that  is  a  thing 
that  only  concerns  myself.  I  do  nol 
require  fortune  in  my  wife,  and  I  dc 


150 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT 


not  seek  it.  You  will  give  her  to  me, 
Mr.  Hastings.  You  will  dispense  with 
unnecessary  ceremony,  and  let  her  go 
abroad  with  me  !"  he  urged.  "  She 
will  do  me  more  good  than  all  else." 

"  I  will  give  you  no  promise  of  any 
sort,  Mr.  George  Godolphin.  As  to  tak- 
ing her  abroad  with  you, — it  is  absurd 
to  think  of  that.  And  no  daughter  of 
mine  shall  enter  a  family  where  she  is 
not  sure  of  a  hearty  welcome.  I  must 
first  know  the  sentiments  of  yours." 

George  looked  radiant.  "  Mr.  Hast- 
ings, if  they  heartily  welcome  Maria, 
will  vou  allow  me  to  welcome  her  ?" 

"Possibly  I  will." 

"  Then  it  is  an  affair  decided.  Janet 
will  be  relieved  of  a  nightmare,  and 
Maria  is,  I  believe,  Thomas's  prime 
favorite  in  all  the  world  now  Ethel's 
gone." 

"  Of  what  nightmare  will  it  relieve 
Miss  Godolphin  ?"  inquired  the  rector. 

A  smile  crossed  George's  lips. 
"  She,  like  you,  has  been  fearing  that 
I  intended  to  connect  myself  with 
Charlotte  Pain.  Only  yesterday  I 
assured  Janet  she  was  mistaken,  but 
I  scarcely  think  she  put  entire  faith 
in  me.     She  does  not  like  Miss  Pain." 

"  Do  you  think  you  have  pursued  a 
wise  course  in  giving  cause  for  this 
talk  relative  to  Miss  Pain  ?" 

"  I  have  not  given  cause  to  Miss 
Pain  herself,  Mr.  Hastings,"  replied 
George,  warmly.  "  I  am  convinced 
that  she  has  known  in  her  heart  of  my 
attachment  to  Maria.  As  to  whiling 
away  a  few  hours  with  her  occasion- 
ally in  idle  talk,  it  is  a  pastime  that 
Charlotte  Pain  is  given  to  favor." 

And  myself  also,  Mr.  George  might 
have  added. 

They  left  the  room  together.  A 
servant  came  up  to  Mr.  Hastings  as 
he  was  crossing  the  hall,  and  said  an 
applicant  at  the  door  craved  speech 
of  him.  The  rector  turned  to  it,  and 
George  entered  the  drawing  -  room 
alone. 

Maria  stood,  pale,  anxious,  excited, 
leaning  against  a  corner  of  the  window, 
half-shrouded  by  the  muslin  curtains. 
She  scarcely  dared  look  up  when 
George  entered.     It  was  not  his  gaze 


that  she  dreaded  to  meet,  but  that  of 
Mr.  Hastings.  To  anger  or  displease 
her  father  was  wormwood  to  Maria. 

George  cast  a  glance  round  the 
room.  "  Where's  Charlotte  Pain  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  She  is  gone,"  was  Maria's  answer. 
"  Oh,  George,"  clasping  her  hands  and 
lifting  to  him  her  streaming  eyes,  "  it 
was  cruel  of  her  to  say  what  she 
did  ?" 

"  I  could  give  it  a  better  name  than 
that,  Maria.  Never  mind :  we  can 
afford  to  be  generous  to-day." 

"  Is  papa  fully  convinced  that — that 
I  do  not  deserve  blame  ?" 

"  He  was  convinced  of  that  before 
he  quitted  this  room.  You  are  to  be 
mine,  Maria,"  he  softly  added  in  a 
whisper.  "  And  very  shortly.  I  must 
take  you  abroad  with  me." 

She  stood  before  him,  not  daring  to 
look  up  now. — shrinking  from  his  ar- 
dent gaze,  the  crimson  mantling  in 
her  pure  cheek. 

"  Mr.  Hastings  demurs  at  the  haste, 
calling  it  absurd,"  continued  George, 
his  tone  changing  to  one  of  gayety : 
"  but  if  you  will  consent  to  waive 
ceremony,  surely  he  may.  Which 
would  be  more  absurd,  Maria  ? — your 
marrying  without  the  three-months' 
preparation  of  millinery,  deemed  ne- 
cessary by  fashion,  or  my  going  away 
alone  for  an  indefinite  period  perhaps 
to  die  ?" 

"  Not  to  die,  George  !"  she  involun- 
tarily answered  in  a  tone  of  painful 
beseeching,  as  if  he  held  the  fiat  of 
life  or  death  in  his  own  hands.  "  But 
about  the  haste,  I  don't  know, — I 
heard  you  thought  of  departing  soon." 

"  I  ought  to  be  away  in  a  fortnight's 
time." 

That  startled  her.  "  A  fortnight's 
time  !"  she  echoed  in  a  voice  of  alarm. 
"Then  it  could  not  be.  What  would 
Prior's  Ash  say  ?» 

"  Maria,"  he  gravely  answered, 
"some  nine  months  ago,  when  Sarah 
Ann  Grame  was  seized  with  the  fever, 
my  brothel*,  alarmed  for  Ethel's  safety, 
would  have  married  her  hastily,  so 
that  he  might  have  the  right  to  re- 
move her  from  danger.     Ethel's  an- 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


151 


ewer  to  him  was  '  What  would  Prior's 
Ash  say?' — as  you  have  now  answered 
me.  Thomas  bowed  to  it :  he  suffered 
the  world's  arrogated  notions  to  reign 
paramount, — and  he  lost  Ethel.  What 
value  do  you  suppose  he  sets  now 
upon  the  opinions  of  Prior's  Ash  ? 
The  cases  may  not  be  precisely  paral- 
lel, but  they  are  sufficiently  so  to  de- 
cide me.  If  I  go  away  from  home,  I 
take  you  :  if  I  may  not  take  you,  I  do 
not  go.  And  now,  my  darling,  I  will 
say  farewell  to  you  for  the  present." 

She  was  surprised.  She  thought 
he  had  come  to  stay  for  some  hours. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  ;  "but  affairs  have 
changed  since  I  entered.  Until  they 
shall  be  more  definitely  settled,  Mr. 
Hastings  will  not  care  that  I  remain 
his  guest." 

He  bent  to  kiss  her.  Not  in  the 
stolen  manner  he  had  been  accustomed 
to,  but  quite  gravely,. — turning  her  shy 
face  to  his  as  if  it  were  his  legal  prov- 
ince so  to  do.  "  A  little  while,  young 
lady,"  he  saucily  whispered,  "  and 
you'll  be  giving  me  kiss  for  kiss." 

Mr.  Hastings  was  in  the  porch  still, 
holding  a  colloquy  with  ill-doing  and 
troublesome  Mrs.  Bond.  George  held 
out  his  hand  as  he  passed. 

"  You  have  not  rested  yourself," 
said  the  rector. 

"  I  shall  get  back  as  far  as  the  bank 
and  rest  there,"  replied  George.  "  I 
presume,  sir,  that  you  intend  to  see 
my  brother  ?" 

"  And  also  Miss  Godolphin,"  curtly 
said  the  rector. 

His  eyes  followed  George  down  the 
path  to  the  gate,  as  he  and  his  stick 
moved  unsteadily  along.  "  Marry 
now  !"  mentally  cried  Mr.  Hastings, 
his  brow  contracting  :  "  he  looks  more 
lit  to  take  to  his  bed,  and  keep  it. 
Now,  Mrs.  Bond,"  he  added,  aloud, 
"let  me  hear  the  conclusion  of  this 
tale." 

George  took  his  way  to  the  bank. 
He  had  not  passed  it  in  coming,  hav- 
ing cut  across  from  Ashlydyat  by  a 
nearer  way  at  the  back  of  the  town. 
He  took  them  by  surprise.  Mr.  Crosse 
was  out,  but  the  clerks  were  warm  in 
their  congratulations :    they  had  not 


believed   him  yet  equal  to  the  exer- 
tion. 

"You  look  very  tired,"  said  Thom- 
as, when  they  were  alone  in  the  bank 
parlor. 

"I  feel  fagged  to  death,"  was 
George's  answer.  "  I  shall  get  you 
to  send  out  for  a  fly  for  me,  and  go 
home  in  that.  Thomas,"  he  continued, 
plunging  into 'his  business  abruptly, 
"  I  expect  you  will  have  an  applica- 
tion made  to  you,  regarding  me." 

"  In  what  way  ?"  quietly  asked 
Thomas. 

"  Well — it  is  not  exactly  a  certifi- 
cate of  character  that's  required,"  re- 
turned George,  with  a  smile.  "  I — I 
am  thinking  of  getting  married.  Will 
you  approve  ?" 

"  I  have  no  right  to  disapprove," 
said  Thomas,  in  a  kind,  grave  tone. 
"  You  are  your  own  master ;  free  to 
act  as  you  shall  judge  best.  I  only 
hope,  George,  that  you  will,  in  choos- 
ing, consider  your  future  happiness." 

"  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that 
I  had  chosen  ?" 

"  I  used  to  think  at  times  that  you 
had  chosen,  or  felt  inclined  to  choose, 
Maria  Hastings." 

"  Right,"  said  George.  I  have  been 
speaking  to  Mr.  Hastings,  and  it  ap- 
pears to  have  taken  him  entirely  by 
surprise.  He  would  give  me  no  an- 
swer until  he  should  have  ascertained 
whether  the  alliance  would  be  agree- 
able to  you  and  Janet.  He  is  a  man 
of  crotchets,  you  know.  So  I  expect 
he  will  be  coming  to  you,  Thomas." 

Thomas  Godolphin 's  eyes  lighted 
up  with  pleasure.  "He  shall  receive 
my  hearty  approval,"  he  said,  warmly. 
"  George," — changing  his  tone  to  sad- 
ness,— "  in  the  days  gone  by,  I  thought 
there  were  two  young  beings  superior 
to  the  rest  of  the  world, — Ethel  and 
Maria." 

"  I  said  so  to  Mr.  Hastings.  I  con- 
clude he  fears  that  Maria's  want  of  for- 
tune would  render  her  unpalatable  to 
my  family,"  remarked  George. 

"  Certainly  not  to  me.  Ethel,  whom 
I  chose,  had  even  less.  If  you  think 
well  to  dispense  with  fortune  in  your 
wife,  George,  we  have   no    right  to 


152 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


cavil  at  it.  I  am  glad  that  you  have 
chosen  Maria  Hastings." 

But  there  was  Janet  to  come  yet. 
George  went  home  in  the  fly,  and 
threw  himself  on  the  first  sofa  he  could 
!ind.  Janet,  full  of  concern,  came  to 
him. 

"  I  said  you  were  attempting  too 
much,  George  !"  she  cried  :  "  but  you 
never  will  listen  to  me." 

"  I'm  sure,  Janet,  I  listen  to  you 
dutifully.  I  am  come  home  to  consult 
you  now,"  he  added,  a  little  spirit  of 
mischief  dancing  in  his  gay  blue  eyes  ; 
•'it  is  not  fatigue  or  illness  that  has 
brought  me.  Janet,  I  am  going  to  be 
married." 

Janet  Godolphin's  pulses  beat  more 
quickly.  She  sat  down  and  folded 
her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  pain.  "  I 
knew  it  would  be  so.  You  need  not 
have  tried  to  deceive  me  yesterday, 
lad." 

"  But  the  young  lady's  friends  re- 
fuse her  to  me,  unless  my  family  openly 
sanction  and  approve  of  the  match," 
went  on  George.  "  You'll  be  cordial 
over  it,  won't  you,  Janet  ?" 

"No,  lad.  I  cannot  forbid  it;  I 
have  no  authority  ;  but,  sanction  it,  I 
never  will.  What  has  put  it  into 
your  head  to  marry  in  this  haste  ? 
You,  with  one  foot  in  the  grave,  as 
may  be  said,  and  one  out  of  it !" 

"  Well,  you  see,  Janet,  you  won't 
trust  me  abroad  without  somebody  to 
look  after  me,"  he  slowly  answered, 
as  if  he  were  arguing  some  momen- 
tous question.  "  You  say  you  can't 
go,  and  Bessy  can't  go,  and  Cecil  may 
not,  and  I  say  I  won't  have  Margery. 
What  was  I  to  do  but  marry  ?  I  can- 
not take  a  young  lady,  you  know,  with- 
out first  marrying  her." 

Janet  Godolphin's  grave  eyes  were 
fixed  on  vacancy,  and  her  thin  lips 
drawn  in  to  pressure.  She  did  not 
answer. 

"  Thomas  heartily  approves,"  he 
continued.  "  I  have  been  with 
him." 

"  Thomas  must  do  as  he  likes,"  said 
Janet.  "  But,  unless  you  have  un- 
wittingly misunderstood  him,  George, 
you  are  telling  me  a  deliberate  false- 


hood. He  will  never  approve  of  your 
marrying  Charlotte  Pain." 

"  Charlotte  Pain  !"  repeated  George, 
with  an  air  of  as  much  surprise  as  if 
it  were  genuine,  "who  was  talking1 
about  Charlotte  Pain  ?  What  put  her 
in  your  head  ?" 

Janet's  face  flushed.  "  Wxere  you 
not  talking  of  Charlotte  Pain  ?" 

"  Not  I,"  said  George.  "  In  spite 
of  the  compliments  you  pay  my  truth- 
fulness, Janet,  I  meant  what  I  said  to 
you  yesterday, — that  I  did  not  intend 
to  make  her  my  wife.  I  am  speaking 
of  Maria  Hastings." 

"  Eh,  lad,  but  that's  good  news  !" 

George  burst  into  a  laugh.  "  What 
green  geese  you  must  all  have  been, 
Janet !  Had  you  used  your  eyes,  you 
might  have  detected,  this  long  while 
past,  that  my  choice  was  fixed  on  Ma- 
ria. But  the  rector  doubts  whether 
you  will  approve.  He  will  not  prom- 
ise her  to  me  until  he  has  your  sanc- 
tion." 

"  I'll  put  my  shawl  on  and  go  down 
at  once  to  the  rectory,  and  tell  him 
that  we  all  love  Maria,"  said  Janet, 
more  impulsively  than  was  common 
with  her  :  but  in  truth  she  had  been 
relieved  from  a  great  fear.  There  was 
something  about  Charlotte  Pain  that 
frightened  sedate  Janet.  Compared 
with  her,  Maria  Hastings  appeared 
every  thing  that  was  desirable  as  a 
wife  for  George.  Her  want  of  for- 
tune, her  want  of  position, — which 
was  certainly  not  equal  to  that  of  the 
Godolphins, — were  lost  sight  of. 

"  I  could  do  with  some  broth,  Janet," 
cried  out  George,  as  she  was  leaving 
the  room  :  "  I  have  had  nothing  since 
breakfast." 

"To  be  sure.  I  am  growing  for- 
getful. Margery  shall  wait  upon  you, 
my  dear.  But,  to  go  down  to  the  rec- 
tory without  delay,  is  a  courtesy  due 
from  me." 

So,  no  impediment  was  placed  upon 
the  marriage.  Neither  was  any  im- 
pediment placed  upon  its  immediate 
celebration, — the  rector  permitting 
himself  to  be  persuaded  into  allowing 
it.  Whether  he  would  have  done  so 
but  for  that  absurd  fable  of  the  private 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


153 


Carriage,  may  be  doubtful.  Char- 
lotte Pain  contrived  that  the  story 
should  become  public  property.  What 
with  that — which,  however,  nobody 
believed — and  what  with  the  present 
real  marriage,  Prior's  Ash  had  a  dainty 
dish  of  gossip  served  up  to  it. 

Three  weeks  subsequent  to  the  day 
when  it  was  broached  to  the  rector, 
George  Godolphin  and  Maria  stood 
before  that  rector,  in  the  Church  of 
All  Souls'.  George  did  not  appear 
very  ill  now:  he  was  not  so  shadowy, 
his  fine  complexion  had  come  again, 
and  stick  the  second  was  discarded. 
Maria  was  beautiful.  Her  soft  bridal 
robes  floated  around  her,  her  color 
went  and  came,  as  she  glanced  shyly 
up  at  George  Godolphin, — a  hand- 
some couple ;  one  that  is  seldom  seen. 

It  was  quite  a  private  marriage — 
so  to  speak ;  but  few  guests  being 
present,  and  they  relatives,  or  very 
close  friends.  Lady  Godolphin  had 
responded  to  the  invitation  (which 
Janet  had  not  expected  her  to  do) 
and  was  the  guest  of  Ashlydyat. 
Very  superb  was  she  in  silks  and 
jewels  this  day.  Old  Mrs.  Briscow 
had  also  remained  for  it.  Mr.  Crosse 
was  present,  and  some  relatives  of  the 
Hastings  family:  and  Grace  and  Cecil 
were  bridesmaids.  The  rector  joined 
their  hands,  speaking  the  necessary 
words  slowly  and  emphatically ;  words 
that  bound  them  to  each  other  till 
death. 

Then  came  the  breakfast  at  the 
rectory,  and  then  the  going  away. 
The  carriage  waited  at  the  gate.  The 
rector  laid  his  hand  upon  George  Go- 
dolphin's  arm  as  he  was  going  out  to 
it,  and  addressed  him  in  a  low  tone : 

"  I  have  confided  her  to  you  in  en- 
tire trust.  You  will  cherish  her  in 
all  love  and  honor  ?" 

"Always  I1'  emphatically  pronounced 
George,  grasping  the  rector's  hand. 
"You  shall  never  have  cause  to  repent 
the  gift." 

Thomas  Godolphin  was  placing 
Maria  in  the  carriage.  She  looked 
out  through  her  tears,  nodding 
her  last  adieus.  George  took  his 
place  beside   her,  and  the  post-boys 


started  on  the  first  stage  towards 
Dover. 

As  they  were  passing  the  house  of 
Lady  Sarah  Grame,  by  which  their 
route  lay,  that  lady  herself  sat  at  the 
window,  as  did  also  Sarah  Anne, — 
both  on  the  tiptoe  of  curiosity,  beyond 
all  doubt.  Between  them,  laughing 
and  talking  with  a  gay  air,  and  look- 
ing out,  stood  Charlotte  Pain.  Maria 
gave  vent  to  an  involuntary  exclama- 
tion. 

Another  moment,  and  they  had 
whirled  by,  beyond  view.  George 
turned  impulsively  to  Maria  and  drew 
her  close  to  him.  "  Thank  God  !  thank 
God  !"  he  earnestly  said. 

"For  what?"  she  murmured. 

"  That  you  are  mine.  Maria,  I 
dreamt  last  night  that  I  had  married 
Charlotte  Pain,  and  that  you  were 
dying.  The  dream  has  been  haunt- 
ing me  all  day.  I  can  laugh  at  it 
now.     Thank  God  !" 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

charlotte's  bargain. 

In  the  gayest  and  lightest  room  of 
Lady  Godolphin's  Folly,  its  windows 
open  to  the  green  slopes,  the  flower- 
ed parterres,  to  the  magnificent  pros- 
pect which  swept  the  horizon  in  the 
distance,  was  Mrs.Verrall.  She  lay 
back  in  a  fauteuil,  in  the  idle,  vain, 
listless  manner  favored  by  her ;  toying 
with  the  ribbons  of  her  tasty  dress, 
with  the  cluster  of  shining  trifles  on 
her  watch-chain,  with  her  gossamer 
handkerchief,  its  lace  so  fine  in  texture 
that  unobservant  eyes  could  not  tell 
where  the  cambric  ended  and  that  be- 
gan, with  her  fan  which  lay  beside 
her,  tapping  her  pretty  foot  upon  an 
ottoman  in  some  impatience ;  there 
she  sat,  displaying  her  charms  in 
conscious  vanity,  and  waiting  for  any 
callers,  idle  and  vain  as  herself,  who 
might  arrive  to  admire  those  charms. 

At  a  distance,  in  another  fauteuil, 
listless  and  impatient  also,  sat  Rodolf 


154 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


Pain.  Time  hung  heavy  on  Mr.  Pain's 
hands  just  now.  He  was  kept  a  sort 
of  prisoner  at  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly, 
and  it  appeared  to  be  the  chief  busi- 
ness of  Charlotte  Pain's  life  to  be  cross 
to  him.  Three  weeks  had  his  sojourn 
there  lasted :  and  though  he  had  hinted 
to  Charlotte  on  his  arrival  that  he 
might  remain  a  good  number  of  weeks 
— interminable  weeks,  was  the  expres- 
sion, I  think — he  had  not  really  thought 
to  do  so  ;  and  the  delay  was  chaffing 
him.  What  particular  business  might 
be  keeping  Mr.  Pain  at  Prior's  Ash 
it  is  not  our  province  at  present  to 
inquire  :  what  his  particular  motive 
might  be  for  rather  shunning  observa- 
tion than  courting  it,  is  no  affair  of 
ours.  He  did  not  join  Mrs.  Verrall  in 
her  visiting  :  he  had  an  innate  dislike 
to  visitors — to  "fine  people,"  as  he 
called  it.  Even  now,  did  any  carriage 
drive  up  and  deposit  its  freight  at  the 
Folly,  it  would  be  signal  for  Mr.  Rodolf 
Pain's  walking  out  of  the  drawing- 
room.  He  was  shy,  and  had  not  been 
accustomed  to  society.  He  strolled 
in  and  out  all  day  in  his  restlessness, 
nearly  unnoticed  by  Mrs.Yerrall,  fid- 
geting Charlotte  Pain, — a  cigar  in 
his  mouth,  and  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  sauntering  about  the  grounds, 
flinging  himself  into  chairs  :  one  sent- 
ence of  complaint  perpetually  on  his 
lips:  "I  wish  to  goodness  Verrall 
would  write  !" 

But  Verrall  did  not  write.  Mrs. 
Verrall  had  received  one  or  two  short 
notes  from  him  after  her  return  from 
London — where  she  had  stayed  but 
twenty-four  hours — and  all  the  allu- 
sion in  them  to  Mr.  Pain  had  been, 
"  Tell  Rodolf  he  shall  hear  from  me 
as  soon  as  possible."  Rodolf  could 
only  wait  with  what  patience  he 
might,  and  feel  himself  like  a  caged 
tiger,  without  its  fierceness.  There 
was  nothing  of  fierceness  about  Rodolf 
Pain — timidity,  rather,  than  that. 

A  timidity  for  which  Charlotte  des- 
pised him.  Had  he  been  more  fierce, 
she  might  have  accorded  him  greater 
respect.  What  could  have  possessed 
Charlotte  ever  to  engage  herself  to 
Rodolf  Pain,  would  be  a  mystery  for 


curious  minds  to  solve,  only  that  such 
mysteries  are  enacted  every  day. 
Engagements  and  marriages,  appar- 
ently the  most  incongruous,  take  place. 
This  much  maybe  said  for  Charlotte: 
that,  let  her  enter  into  what  engage- 
ment she  might,  she  would  keep  it  or 
break  it,  just  as  whim  or  her  con- 
venience suited  her.  Rodolf  Pain's 
thoughts,  as  he  sat  in  that  chair,  were 
probably  turned  to  this  very  fact,  for 
he  broke  the  silence  suddenly  by  a 
pertinent  question  to  Mrs.  Verrall. 

"Does  she  never  mean  to  marry?" 

"  Who  ?"  languidly  asked  Mrs. 
Verrall. 

"  Charlotte,  of  course.  I  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  anybody  else,  that  I 
should  ask.  She  faithfully  promised 
to  be  my  wife  :  you  know  she  did,  Mrs. 
Verrall- " 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,  Rodolf,"  apathet- 
ically interrupted  Mrs.  Verrall.  "As 
if  I  should  interfere  between  you  and 
Charlotte  !" 

"I  think  you  are  in  league  together 
to  snub  me,  Mrs. Verrall,  she  and  you; 
that's  what  I  do,"  grumbled  Rodolf. 
"  If  I  only  remind  her  of  her  promise, 
she  snaps  my  nose  off.  Are  we  to  be 
married,  or  are  we  not  ?" 

"  It  is  no  affair  of  mine,  I  say," 
said  Mrs. Verrall,  "and  I  shall  not 
make  it  one.  I  had  as  soon  Charlotte 
married  you,  as  not;  but  I  am  not 
going  to  take  an  active  part  in  urging 
it — only  to  get  probable  blame  after- 
wards. That  is  all  I  can  say,  and  if 
you  tease  me  more,  Rodolf,  I  shall 
trouble  you  to  walk  into  another 
room." 

Thus  repulsed,  Rodolf  Pain  held 
his  tongue.  He  turned  about  in  his 
chair,  stretched  out  his  feet,  drew 
them  in  again,  threw  up  his  arms 
with  a  prolonged  yawn,  and  altogether 
proved  that  he  was  going  wild  for 
want  of  something  to  do.  Presently 
he  bep:an  again. 

"  Where's  she  off  to  ?" 

"  Charlotte  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Verrall. 
"  She  went  into  Prior's  Ash.  She 
said — yes,  I  think  she  said,  she  should 
call  upon  Lady  Sarah  Grame.  Look 
there !" 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASULYDYAT. 


155 


Mrs.Verrall  rose  from  her  seat  and 
ran  to  a  farther  window,  whence  she 
gained  a  better  view  of  the  road,  lead- 
ing from  Ashlydyat  to  Prior's  Ash.  A 
chariot-and-four  was  passing  slowly 
down  towards  the  town.  Its  post-boys 
wore  white  favors,  and  Margery  and  a 
man-servant  were  pe'rched  outside.  Mrs. 
Verrall  knew  it, — that  it  was  the  car- 
riage destined  to  convey  away  George 
Godolphin  and  his  bride,  who  were  at 
that  moment  seated  at  the  breakfast 
at  All  Souls'  rectory,  chief  amidst  the 
wedding  guests. 

"  Then  Margery  does  go  abroad 
with  them  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.Verrall. 
"The  servants  had  laid  hold  of  so 
many  conflicting  tales,  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  know  which  to  believe. 
She  goes  as  Mrs.  George's  maid,  I 
suppose,  and  to  see  after  him  and  his 
rheumatism." 

"  His  rheumatism's  well,  isn't  it  ?" 
returned  Rodolf  Pain. 

"  Well ;  but  he's  not.  He  is  as  weak 
as  water,  wanting  care  still.  Prudent 
Janet  does  well  to  send  Margery : 
what  should  Mrs.  George  know,  about 
taking  care  of  the  sick  ?  I  think  they 
have  shown  excessively  bad  manners 
not  to  invite  me  to  the  breakfast," 
continued  Mrs.  Yerrall,  in  a  tone  of 
acrimony. 

"  Somebody  said  that  it  was  to  be 
quite  a  private  breakfast, — confined  to 
relatives." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Mrs.Verrall; 
"they  might  have  made  an  exception 
in  my  favor.  They  know  I  like  such 
tilings  :  and  wre  lived  in  their  house, 
Ashlydyat,  -and  are  now  living  at 
Lady  Godolphin's  Folly." 

"That's  where  Charlotte's  gone,  I'll 
lay,"  cried  Mr.  Rodolf  Pain. 

Mrs.Verrall  turned  her  eyes  upon 
him  with  a  slight  accession  of  wTonder 
in  them.  "  Gone  there !  To  the 
rectory  ?     Nonsense,  Rodolf !" 

"I  didn't  say  to  the  rectory,  Mrs. 
Verrall.  She'd  not  be  so  stupid  as  to 
go  there,  without  an  invitation.  She's 
gone  about  the  town,  staring  at  the 
carriages,  and  looking  out  for  what 
she  can  see." 

"  Very   possibly,"   returned    Mrs. 


Verrall,  throwing  herself  into  her 
chair  in  weariness.  "What  has  be- 
come of  all  the  people  to-day,  that  no- 
body comes,  to  call  upon  me  ?  I 
should  think  they  are  stopping  to  look 
at  the  wedding." 

Rodolf,  in  weariness  as  great,  slowly 
lifted  his  body  out  of  the  chair,  gave 
himself  another  good  long  stretch,  and 
quitted  the  room.  Talk  of  the  curse 
of  work  !  Never  did  work  bring  a 
curse  half  as  great  as  that  brought  by 
idleness.  Better  break  stones  in  the 
road,  better  work  in  galley-chains, 
than  sit  through  the  livelong  day,  day 
after  day  as  the  year  goes  round,  and 
be  eaten  up  with  lassitude.  Rodolf 
Pain's  compelled  idleness  was  but 
temporary ;  he  was  away  from  his  oc- 
cupation only  for  a  time  :  but  Mrs. 
Verrall  possessed  no  occupation  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end.  Her  hands 
had  no  duties  to  perform,  no  labor  to 
transact :  she  never  touched  any  thing 
in  the  shape  of  ornamental  work  ;  she 
rarely,  if  ever,  opened  a  book.  She 
was  one  of  those  who  possess  no  re- 
sources within  themselves  :  and,  may 
Heaven  have  mercy  upon  all  such  ! 

By-and-by,  after  Rodolf  had  smoked 
two  cigars  outside,  and  had  lounged 
in  again,  pretty  near  done  to  death 
with  the  effort  of  killing  time,  Char- 
lotte returned.  She  came  in  at  the 
open  window,  apparently  in  the  highest 
spirits,  her  face  sparkling. 

"Did  you  hear  the  bells  ?"  asked  she. 

"I  did,"  answered  Rodolf.  "I 
heard  them  when  I  was  out,  just 
now." 

"The  town's  quite  in  a  commotion," 
Charlotte  resumed.  "  Half  the  raga- 
muffins in  the  place  are  collected 
round  the  rectory  gates :  they  had 
better  let  the  beadle  get  amongst 
them  !" 

"  Commotion  or  no  commotion,  I 
know  I  have  not  had  a  soul  to 
call  here  !"  grumbled  Mrs.  Verrall. 
"Where  have  you  been,  Charlotte?" 

"At  Lady  Sarah's.  And  I  have 
had  the  great  honor  of  seeing  the 
bride  and  bridegroom !"  went  on 
Charlotte,  in  a  tone  of  complaisance 
so  intense  as  to  savor  of  mockery. 


156 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


"  They  came  driving  by,  in  the  car- 
riage, and  we  had  full  view." 

This  somewhat  aroused  Mrs.Yerrall 
from  her  listlessness.  "  They  have 
started,  then  !  How  did  she  look, 
Charlotte  ?" 

"  Look  !"  cried  Charlotte.  "  She 
looked  as  she  usually  looks,  for  all  I 
saw.  He  had  hectic  cheeks  ;  I  could 
see  that.  Mr.  George  must  take  care 
of  himself  yet,  I  fancy." 

"How  was  Mrs.  George  dressed?" 
questioned  Mrs.Yerrall  again. 

"  Could  I  see  ? — seated  low  in  the 
carriage,  as  she  was,  and  leaning  back 
in  it !"  retorted  Charlotte.  "  She  wore 
a  white  bonnet  and  vail,  and  that's  all 
I  can  tell.  Margery  and  Pierce  were 
with  them.  I  say,  Kate,  don't  you 
think  Lady  Sarah  must  feel  this  day? 
A  few  months  back,  and  it  was  her 
daughter  who  was  on  the  point  of 
marriage  with  a  Godolphin.  But  she 
did  not  seem  to  think  of  it.  She'd 
give  her  head  for  a  daughter  of  hers 
to  wed  a  Godolphin  still." 

Mrs.  Yerrall  raised  her  eyes  to 
Charlotte's  with  an  expression  of  sim- 
ple astonishment.  The  remark  mys- 
tified her.  Mrs.  Yerrall  could  boast 
little  depth  of  any  sort,  and  never  saw 
half  so  far  as  Charlotte  did.  Char- 
lotte resumed  : 

"  /  saw  ;  /  know  ;  I  have  seen  and 
known  ever  since  Ethel  died.  My 
lady  would  like  Sarah  Anne  to  take 
Ethel's  place  with  Thomas  Godol- 
phin." 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  that,  Char- 
lotte." 

"  Disbelieve  it,  then,"  equably  re- 
sponded Charlotte,  as  she  passed  out 
to  the  terrace  and  began  to  call  to  her 
dogs.  They  came  noisily  up  in  an- 
swer, and  Charlotte  disappeared  with 
them. 

And  Mr.  Rodolf  Pain,  sitting  there 
in  his  embroidered  chair,  with  a  swell- 
ing heart,  remarked  that  Charlotte 
had  not  vouchsafed  the  smallest  notice 
to  him.  "  I'd  not  stop  another  hour," 
he  murmured  to  himself,  "only  that 
my  going  back  would  put  up  Yerrall : 
and — and  it  might  not  do." 

Yery  intense  was  that  gentleman's 


surprise  to  see,  not  two  minutes  after, 
Mr.  Yerrall  himself  enter  the  room  by 
the  window.  Mrs.  Yerrall  gave  a  lit- 
tle shriek  of  astonishment ;  and  the 
new-comer,  throwing  his  summer-over- 
coat upon  a  chair,  shook  hands  with 
his  wife  and  gave  her  a  kiss.  Plenty 
of  dust  was  mingled  with  his  yellow 
whiskers  and  his  moustache. 

"  I  came  third-class  most  of  the 
way,"  explained  Mr.  Yerrall,  as  an 
apology  for  the  dust.  "  The  first-class 
carriage  was  stuffing  hot,  and  there 
was  no  getting  a  smoke  in  it.  We 
had  a  troublesome  guard  :  the  fellow 
excused  himself  by  saying  one  of  the 
directors  wras  in  the  train." 

"  I  have  been  all  this  while  rubbing 
my  eyes  to  find  out  whether  they  are 
deceiving  me,"  cried  Rodolf  Pain. 
"  Who  was  to  dream  of  seeing  you 
here  to-day,  sir  ?" 

"  I  should  think  you  expected  to  see 
me  before,  Rodolf,"  was  Mr.  Yerrall's 
answer. 

"  Well,  so  I  did.  But  it  seemed  to 
be  put  off  so  long,  that  I  am  surprised 
to  see  you  now.     Is — is  all  straight  ?" 

"  Quite  straight,"  replied  Mr.  Yer- 
rall ;  "  after  an  overwhelming  amount 
of  bother.  You  are  going  up  to-day, 
Pain." 

"  And  not  sorry  to  hear  it,  either," 
cried  Rodolf  Pain,  with  emphasis. 
"  I  am  sick  of  having  nothing  to  do. 
Is  Appleby  settled  ?"  he  added,  drop- 
ping his  voice. 

Mr.  Yerrall  gave  a  nod  ;  and,  draw- 
ing Rodolf  Pain  to  a  far  window, 
stood  there  talking  to  him  for  some 
minnutes  in  a  undertone.  Mrs.  Yer- 
rall, who  never,  concerned  herself  with 
matters  of  business,  and  never  would 
listen  to  them,  went  out  on  the  terrace, 
a  pale  pink  parasol,  with  its  white 
fringe,  held  between  her  face  and  the 
sun.  While  thus  standing,  the  dis- 
tant bells  of  All  Souls',  which  had  been 
ringing  occasional  peals  throughout 
the  day,  smote  faintly  upon  her  ear. 
She  went  in-doors  again. 

"Yerrall,"  said  she,  "  if  you  come 
out  here  you  can  hear  the  bells.  Do 
you  know  what  thev  are  ringing  for  ?" 

"  What  bells  ?     Why  should  I  hear 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


157 


them  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Verrall,  turning 
from  Rodolf  Pain. 

"  They  are  ringing  for  George  Go- 
dolphin's  wedding.  He  has  been  mar- 
ried to-day." 

The  information  appeared, — as  Ro- 
dolf Pain  would  have  expressed  it, 
had  he  given  utterance  to  his  senti- 
ments,— to  strike  Mr.  Yerrall  all  of  a 
heap.  "  George  Godolphin  married  to- 
day !"  he  repeated,  in  profound  aston- 
ishment, remembering  the  creachy 
state  George  had  been  in  when  he  had 
quitted  Prior's  Ash,  three  weeks  be- 
fore. "  Married  or  buried,  do  you 
mean  ?" 

Mrs.  Yerrall  laughed.  "  Oh,  he  has 
got  well  from  his  illness ;  or  nearly 
well,"  she  said.  "  The  bells  wouid 
toll  muffled  peals,  if  he  were  buried, 
Yerrall,  Yerrall,  like  they  did  for  Sir 
George." 

"  And  whom  has  he  married  ?"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Yerrall,  not  in  the  least 
overgetting  his  astonishment. 

"  Maria  Hastings." 

Mr.  Yerrall  stroked  his  yellow 
moustache, — a  somewhat  recent  ap- 
pendage to  his  beauty.  He  was  by 
no  means  a  demonstrative  man, — ex- 
cept on  rare  occasions, — and  though 
the  tidings  evidently  made  marked 
impression  on  him,  he  said  nothing. 
"  Is  Charlotte  at  the  wedding  ?"  he 
casually  asked. 

"  No  strangers  were  invited,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Yerrall.  "Lady  Godol- 
phin came  for  it,  and  is  staying  at 
Ashlydyat.  She  has  put  off  her  weeds 
for  to-day,  and  appears  in  colors, — 
glad  enough,  I  know,  of  the  excuse 
tor  doing  so." 

"  Where  is  Charlotte  ?"  resumed  Mr. 
Yerrall. 

He  happened  to  look  at  Rodolf 
Pain  as  he  spoke,  and  the  latter  an- 
swered, pointing  towards  some  trees 
on  the  right. 

"  She  went  down  there  with  her 
dogs.     I'll  go  and  find  her." 

Mr.  Yerrall  watched  him  away  and 
then  turned  to  his  wife, — speaking, 
however,  impassively  still. 

"  You  say  he  has  married  Ma- 
ria   Hastings  ?      How    came     Char- 


lotte   to    let    him   slip   through   her 
fingers  ?" 

"  Because  she  could  not  help  it,  I 
suppose,"  replied  Mrs.  Yerrall,  shrug- 
ging her  pretty  shoulders.  "  I  never 
thought  Charlotte  had  any  chance 
with  George  Godolphin,  Maria  Hast- 
ings being  in  the  way.  Had  Char- 
lotte been  first  in  the  field,  it  might 
have  made  all  the  difference.  He  had 
fallen  in  love  with  Maria  Hastings  be- 
fore he  ever  saw  Charlotte." 

Mr.  Yerrall  superciliously  drew  down 
his  lips  at  the  corners.  "  Don't  talk 
about  a  man's  '  falling  in  love,'  Kate. 
Girls  fall  in  love, — men  know  better. 
Charlotte  has  played  her  cards  badly," 
he  added,  with  some  emphasis. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Yerrall. 
"  That  Charlotte  would  play  them  to 
the  best  of  her  ability,  there's  little 
doubt :  but,  as  I  say,  she  had  no 
chance  from  the  first.  I  think  George 
did  love  Maria  Hastings.  I'm  sure 
they  have  been  together  enough,  he 
and  Charlotte,  and  they  have  flirted 
enough ;  but,  as  to  caring  for  Char- 
lotte, I  don't  believe  George  cared  for 
her  any  more  than  he  cared  for  me. 
They  have  gone  abroad  for  the  win- 
ter,— will  be  away  six  months,  or 
more." 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,"  quietly  re- 
marked Mr.  Yerrall.  "  I  was  in  hopes 
to  have  made  some  use  of  Mr.  George 
Godolphin." 

"Use?"  cried  Mrs. Yerrall.  "What 
use  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  carelessly  replied 
Mr.  Yerrall.  "A  little  matter  of  busi- 
ness that  I  was  going  to  propose  to 
him." 

"  Won't  it  do  when  he  comes  home  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  it  may,"  said  Mr.  Yer- 
rall. 

Mr.  Rodolf  Pain  had  walked  to  the 
right,  and  plunged  amidst  the  grove 
of  trees  in  search  of  Charlotte.  He 
was  not  long  in  finding  her.  The 
noise  made  by  her  dogs  was  sufficient 
guide.  In  one  respect  Charlotte  Pain 
was  better  off  than  her  sister,  Mrs. 
Yerrall :  she  found  more  resources  for 
killing  time.  Charlotte  had  no  greater 
taste  for  books  than  Mrs.  Yerrall  had  : 


158 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


if  she  took  one  up,  it  was  only  to  fling 
it  down  again  :  she  did  not  draw,  she 
did  not  work.  For  some  reasons  of 
her  own,  Charlotte  kept  an  orna- 
mental piece  of  work  in  hand,  which 
never  got  finished.  It  is  speaking 
metaphorically,  you  know,  to  say  "in 
hand."  Had  she  kept  it  literally  in 
hand  it  might  have  progressed  better. 
Once  in  a  way,  upon  the  most  rare 
occasions,  it  was  taken  up,  and  a 
couple  of  stitches  done  to  it;  and 
then,  like  the  book,  flung  down  again. 
Charlotte  played  well ;  nay,  bril- 
liantly :  but  she  never  played  to  amuse 
herself,  or  for  the  love  of  music  :  al- 
ways for  display.  The  resources  which 
Charlotte  possessed  above  Mrs.Ver- 
rall  lay  in  her  horsemanship  and  her 
dogs.  Mrs.Yerrall  could  ride,  and 
sometimes  did  ;  but  it  was  always  in 
a  decorous  manner.  She  did  not  gal- 
lop, helter-skelter,  across  country,  as 
Charlotte  did,  with  half  a  dozen  cava- 
liers barely  keeping  up  with  her ; 
she  took  no  pleasure  in  horses  for 
themselves,  and  she  would  as  soon 
have  entered  a  pigsty  as  a  stable. 
With  all  Mrs.  YerralPs  vanity,  and  her 
not  overstrong  intellect,  she  possessed 
more  of  the  innate  refinement  of  the 
gentlewoman  than  did  Charlotte. 

Look  at  Charlotte  now  :  as  Rodolf 
Pain,  —  a  cigar,  which  he  has  just 
lighted,  between  his  lips,  and  his  hands 
in  his  pockets, — approaches  her.  She 
is  standing  on  a  garden-bench  with 
the  King  Charley  in  her  arms  :  the 
other  two  clogs  she  had  set  on  to  fight 
at  her  feet,  their  muzzles  lying  on  the 
bench  beside  her.  What  with  the 
natural  tempers  of  these  two  agreea- 
ble animals,  and  what  with  Charlotte's 
frequent  pastime  of  exasperating  the 
one  against  the  other,  it  had  been 
found  necessary  to  keep  them  muz- 
zled to  prevent  fights :  but  Charlotte 
delighted  in  removing  the  muzzles, 
and  setting  them  on, — as  she  had  done 
now.  Charlotte  had  these  resources 
in  addition  to  any  possessed  by  Mrs. 
Yerrall.  Mrs.Yerrall  would  not,  of 
her  own  free-will,  have  touched  a  dog 
with  her  finger  :  if  compelled  to  it,  it 
would  have  been  accomplished  in  the 


most  gingerly  fashion  with  the  ex- 
treme tip  :  and  it  was  .  a  positive 
source  of  annoyance  to  Mrs.Yerrall, 
often  of  contention  between  them, 
Charlotte's  admitting  these  clogs  to 
familiar  companionship.  Charlotte, 
when  weary  from  lack  of  pastime, 
could  find  it  in  the  stables,  or  with 
her  dogs.  Many  an  hour  did  she 
thus  pass  :  and,  so  far,  she  had  the 
advantage  of  Mrs.Yerrall.  Mrs.Yer- 
rall often  told  Charlotte  that  she  ought 
to  have  been  born  a  man  :  it  cannot 
be  denied  that  some  of  her  tastes  were 
more  appropriate  to  a  man  than  to  a 
gentlewoman. 

Rodolf  Pain  reached  the  bench. 
It  was  a  lovely  place,  secluded,  and 
shaded  by  trees  ;  with  an  opening  in 
front  to  admit  a  panoramic  view  of 
the  enchanting  scenery.  But,  on  the 
green  mossy  turf  between  that  bench 
and  the  opening,  snarled  and  fought 
those  awful  dogs, — neither  the  noise 
nor  the  pastime  particularly  in  ac- 
cordance with  that  pleasant  spot,  so 
suggestive  of  peace.  Charlotte  looked 
on  approvingly,  giving  a  helping  word 
to  either  side  which  she  might  deem 
required  it ;  while  the  King  Charley 
barked  and  struggled  in  her  arms  be- 
cause he  was  restrained  from  joining 
in  the  melee. 

"  I  am  going  up  at  last,  Charlotte." 

"  Up  where  ?"  asked  Charlotte, 
without  turning  her  eyes  on  Rodolf 
Pain. 

"  To  town.     Yerrall's  come  back." 

Surprise  caused  her  to  look  at  him 
now.  "Yerrall  back  1"  she  uttered. 
"  He  has  come  suddenly,  then  :  he 
was  not  back  five  minutes  ago.  When 
are  you  going  up  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,  if 
you'll  muzzle  those  brutes,  and  so 
stop  their  noise." 

"Muzzle  them  yourself," said  Char- 
lotte, kicking  the  muzzles  on  to  the 
grass  with  her  foot. 

Mr.  Pain  accomplished  his  task, 
though  he  did  not  particularly  like  it; 
neither  was  it  over  easy  of  accom- 
plishment :  the  dogs  were  ferocious 
at  the  moment.  He  then  drove  them 
away,    and    Charlotte    dropped    her 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASI1LYDYAT. 


159 


King  Charley  that  he  might  run  after 
them, — which  he  did,  barking  his 
short,  squeaking  bark.  Rodolf  held 
out  his  hand  to  help  Charlotte  down 
from  her  standing  on  the  bench  :  but 
Charlotte  chose  to  remain  where  she 
was,  and  seated  herself  on  one  of  its 
arms.  Rodolf  Pain  took  a  seat  on 
the  bench,  sideways,  so  as  to  face  her, 
leaning  his  back  against  the  other 
arm. 

"  When  do  you  go  ?"  repeated 
Charlotte. 

"  In  an  hour  from  this." 

"  Quick  work,"  remarked  Char- 
lotte. "Verrall  gives  no  time  for  the 
grass  to  grow,  in  any  thing  he  has  to 
do  with," 

"  The  quick  departure  is  mine," 
said  Mr.  Pain.  "  So  that  I  am  in 
town  for  business  to-morrow  morning, 
it's  all  that  Verrall  cares  about.  He 
suggested  that  I  should  go  up  by  a 
night-train." 

"/should," cried  Charlotte,  bluntly. 

"  No  you  would  not,"  answered 
Rodolf  Pain,  in  a  tone  of  bitterness. 
"  Were  you  treated  by  any  one  as  you 
treat  me,  you'd  be  glad  enough  to  get 
away." 

"  That's  good  !"  ejaculated  Char- 
lotte, with  a  ringing  laugh.  "  I'm 
sure  I  treat  you  beautifully.  Many  a 
one  would  jump  at  getting  the  treat- 
ment from  me  that  you  get ;  I  can 
tell  you  that,  Mr.  Dolf." 

Mr.  Dolf  smoked  on  in  silence ; 
rather  savagely,  for  him. 

"  What  have  you  to  complain  of  ?" 
pursued  Charlotte. 

"  This,"  said  he,  with  sternness. 
"  That  you  promised  to  be^my  wife  ; 
that  you  have  led  me  on,  Heaven 
knows  how  long,  causing  me  to  be- 
lieve you  meant  what  you  said,  that 
you  would  keep  your  promise  ;  and 
now  you  coolly  turn  round  and  jilt 
me  !  That  bare  fact  is  quite  enough, 
Charlotte,  without  going  into  another 
mortifying  fact, — your  slighting  be- 
haviour to  me  lately." 

"  Who  says  I  have  jilted  you, — or 
that  I  mean  to  jilt  you?"  asked  Char- 
lotte. 

"Who  says  it!"   retorted  Rodolf 


Pain.      "  Why,. — are   you   not   doing 
so?" 

"  No.  I  dare  say  I  shall  have  you 
some  time." 

"I  am  getting  tired  of  it,  Char- 
lotte," said  he,  in  a  wearied  tone  of 
pain.  "I  have  cared  for  nothing  but 
}rou  in  the  world — in  the  shape  of  wo- 
man— but  I  am  getting  tired ;  and  I 
have  had  enough  to  make  me.  If 
you  will  fix  our  wedding  now,  before 
I  go  up,  and  keep  to  it,  I'll  bless  you 
for  it,  and  make  you  a  fonder  hus- 
band than  George  Godolphin  would 
have  made  you." 

"How  dare  you  mention  George 
Godolphin  to  me. in  that  way?"  cried 
Charlotte,  with  flashing  eyes,  for  the 
sentence  had  roused  all  her  ire.  "  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  I)olf 
Pain !  Has  not  George  Godoiphin 
— as  it  turns  out — been  engaged  to 
Maria  Hastings  lunger  than  I  have 
known  him,  and  has  now  married  her  ? 
Do  you  suppose  I  could  have  spent 
that  time  with  them  both  in  Scotland 
at  Lady  Godolphin's,  and  not  become 
acquainted  with  their  secret  ?  That 
must  prove  what  your  senseless  jeal- 
ousy was  worth  !'' 

"  Charlotte,"  said  he,  meekly,  "  as 
to  George  Godolphin,  I  readily  con- 
fess I  was  mistaken,  and  I  am  sorry 
to  have  been  so  stupid.  You  might 
have  set  me  right  with  a  word,  but  I 
suppose  you  preferred  to  tease  me. 
However,  he  is  done  with  now.  But, 
Charlotte,  I  tell  you  that  altogether 
I  am  getting  tired  of  it.  Have  mej 
or  not,  as  you  feel  you  can  :  but,  played 
with  any  longer  I  will  not  be.  If  you 
dismiss  me  now,  you  dismiss  me  for 
good." 

"  I  have  half  a  mind  to  say  yes," 
returned  Charlotte,  in  the  coolest 
tone,  as  if  she  were  deciding  upon  a 
trifling  matter ;  the  choice  of  a  bonnet, 
or  the  route  to  be  pursued  in  a  walk. 
"But  there's  one  thing  holds  me  back, 
Dolf." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Dolf,  whose 
cheek  had  lighted  up  with  eager  hope. 

Charlotte  leaped  off  the  bench  and 
sat  down  on  it,  nearer  to  Dolf,  her 
accent  and  face  as  apparently  honest 


160 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


as  if  fibs  were  unknown  to  her.  "And 
it  is  the  only  thing  which  has  held  me 
back  all  along,"  she  went  on,  staring 
unflinchingly  into  Dolf  s  eyes. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?"  cried  he. 

"The  hazard  of  the  step." 

"  The  hazard  !"  repeated  Dolf. 
"  What  hazard  ?" 

Charlotte  glanced  round,  as  if  to 
convince  herself  that  nothing  with 
human  ears  was  near,  and  her  voice 
dropped  to  a  whisper.  "You  andVerrall 
are  not  upon  the  safest  course " 

"  It's  as  safe  as  many  others,"  in- 
terrupted Dolf  Pain. 

"Don't  bother  about  others,"  testily 
rebuked  Charlotte.  "Look  to  itself. 
I  say  that  it  is  hazardous  :  what  little 
I  know  of  it  tells  me  that.  I  have 
heard  a  word  dropped  by  you  and  a 
word  dropped  by  Verrall,  and  I  can 
put  two  and  two  together  as  well  as 
most  people.  Is  there  no  danger,  no 
chance" — she  spoke  lower  still,  and 
with  unmistakable  gravity — "  that  a 
crisis  might  come,  which — which 
would  carry  you  to  a  place  where 
nobody  stands  willingly — the  Crimi- 
nal Bar  ?" 

"  Good  gracious,  no  !"  cried  Rodolf 
Pain,  flinging  his  cigar  away  in  his 
surprise  and  anger.  "  What  could 
put  that  into  your  head,  Charlotte  ? 
The — profession — may  not  be  one  of 
the  strictest  honor,  and  it  has  its  dark 
sides  as  well  as  its  light ;  but  there's 
no  danger  of  such  a  thing  as  you 
hint  at.  Where  did  you  pick  the 
idea  up  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  where.  I  have 
caught  a  word  or  two,  not  meant  for 
me ;  and  now  and  then  I  see  things 
reported  in  the  newspapers.  You 
can't  deny  one  thing,  Dolf:  that,  if 
any  unpleasantness  should  drop  from 
the  skies,  it  has  been  made  a  matter 
of  arrangement  that  you  should  be 
the  sufferer:  not  Verrall." 

Pvodolf's  eyes  expanded  themselves 
beyond  common.  "How did  you  get 
to  know  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Never  mind  how  I  got  to  know  it. 
Is  it  so  ?» 

"Yes,  it  is,"  acknowledged  Mr.  Pain, 
who  was  bv  nature  more  truthful  than 


Charlotte.  "But  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honor,  Charlotte,  that  there's  no 
danger-  of  our  falling  into  such  a  pit 
as  you  have  hinted  at.  We  should 
not  be  such  fools.  The  worst  that 
could  happen  to  me  would  be  a  so- 
journ, short  or  long,  in  some  snug 
place  such  as  this,  while  Verrall  puts 
things  to  rights.  Like  it  has  been 
now,  for  instance,  through  this  busi- 
ness of  Appleby's." 

"  You  tell  me  this  to  satisfy  me," 
said  Charlotte. 

"I  tell  it  because  it  is  truth — so  far 
as  my  belief  goes,  or  as  I  can  foresee 
now." 

"  Very  well.  I  accept  it,"  returned 
Charlotte.  "  But  now,  Rodolf,  mark 
what  I  say.  If  this  worst  state  of 
things  should  come  to  pass " 

"  It  won't  I  tell  you,"  he  interrupt- 
ed.    "It  can't," 

"Will  you  listen  ?  I  choose  to  put 
the  matter  upon  the  supposition  that 
it  may.  If  this  bad  state  of  things 
should  come  to  pass  and  you  fall,  I 
will  never  fall  with  you  :  and  it  is 
only  upon  that  condition  that  I'll  be- 
come your  wife." 

The  wrords  puzzled  Mr.  Pain  not  a 
little.  "  I  don't  understand  you, 
Charlotte.  As  to  '  conditions,'  you 
may  make  any  for  yourself  that  you 
please — in  reason." 

"  Very  well.  We  will  have  an  un- 
derstanding with  each  other,  drawn 
up  as  elaborately  as  if  it  were  a  marri- 
age-settlement," she  said,  laughing. 
"  Yes,  Mr.  Rodolf,  wdiile  you  have 
been  ill-naturedly  accusing  me  of  de- 
signs upon  the  heart  of  George  Go- 
dolphin,  I  was  occupied  with  precau- 
tions touching  my  married  life  with 
you.  You  don't  deserve  me ;  and 
that's  a  fact.  Let  go  my  hand,  will 
you.  One  of  those  dogs  has  got  un- 
muzzled, I  fancy,  by  the  noise,  and  I 
must  run,  or  there'll  be  dog-murder 
committed. " 

'.'  Charlotte,"  he  cried,  feverishly 
and  eagerly,  not  letting  go  her  hand, 
"  when  shall  it  be  V 

"As  you  like,"  she  answered,  indif- 
ferently. "  This  month,  or  next  month, 
or  the  month  after  :  J  don't  care." 


THE      S  II  A  I)  0  W      0 


A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


161 


The  tone  both  mortified  and  pained 
him.  His  brow  knit :  and  Charlotte 
saw  the  impression  her  words  had 
left.  She  put  on  a  pretty  look  of  con- 
trition. 

"  Mind,  Rodolf,  it  shall  be  an  un- 
derstood thing,  beforehand,  that  you 
don't  attempt  to  control  me  in  the 
smallest  particular;  that  I  have  my 
own  way  in  every  thing." 

"  You  will  take  care  to  have  that, 
Charlotte,  whether  it  be  an  understood 
thing  beforehand,  or  not,"  replied  he. 

Charlotte  laughed  as  she  walked 
away, — a  ringing  laugh  of  power, 
which  the  air  echoed  :  of  power,  at 
any  rate,  over  the  heart  and  will  of 
Mr.  Rodolf  Pain. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

DANGEROUS  AMUSEMENT. 

O^r  an  April  day,  sunny  and  charm- 
ing, a  gentleman  with  a  lady  on  his 
arm  was  strolling  down  one  of  the 
narrowest  and  dirtiest  streets  of  Hom- 
burg.  A  tall  man  was  he,  young  and 
handsome,  with  a  fair  Saxon  face  and 
fair  Saxon  curls.  Could  it  be  George 
Godolphin — who  had  gone  away  from 
Prior's  Ash  six  months  before,  noth- 
ing but  a  shadowy  wreck  ?  It  was 
George  safe  enough ;  restored  to  full 
strength,  to  perfect  health.  Maria, 
on  the  contrary,  looked  thin  and  deli- 
cate, and  her  face  had  lost  a  good 
deal  of  its  color.  They  had  wintered 
chiefly  at  Pau,  but  had  left  it  a  month 
past.  Since  then  they  had  travelled 
about  from  place  to  place,  by  short 
stages,  taking  it  easy,  as  George 
called  it :  staying  a  day  or  two  in  one 
town,  a  day  or  two  in  another,  turn- 
ing to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  as  in- 
clination led  them,  going  forwards,  or 
going  backwards :  so  that  they  were 
home  the  middle  of  April,  it  would 
be  time  enough.  George  had  received 
carte  blanche  from  Thomas  Godolphin 
to  remain  out  as  long  as  he  deemed 
it  necessary;  and  George  was  not 
10 


one  to  decline  the  privilege.  Play 
before  work  had  always  been  George's 
motto. 

On  the  previous  evening  they  had 
arrived  at  Homburg  from  Wiesbaden, 
and  were  now  taking  their  survey  of 
the  place.  Neither  liked  its  appear- 
ance so  much  as  they  had  done  many 
other  places,  and  they  were  mutually 
agreeing  to  leave  it  again  that  evening, 
when  a  turning  in  the  street  brought 
them  in  view  of  another  lady  and 
gentleman,  arm-in-arm  like  them- 
selves. 

"English,  I  am  sure,"  remarked 
Maria,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  I  should  think  so  !"  replied  George, 
laughing.  "  Don't  vou  recognize 
them  ?" 

She  had  recognized  them  ere  George 
finished  speaking.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Verrall  !  It  took  about  ten  minute?* 
to  ask  and  answer  questions.  "  How 
strange  that  we  should  not  have  met 
before  !"  Mrs.  Verrall  cried.  "  We 
have  been  here  this  fortnight.  But 
perhaps  you  have  but  just  come  ?" 

"  Only  last  night,"  said  George. 

"  My  wife  turned  sick  for  a  foreign 
tour,  so  I  indulged  her,"  explained 
Mr. Verrall.  "We  have  been  away  a 
month  now." 

"And  a  fortnight  of  it  at  Hom- 
burg!" exclaimed  George,  in  surprise. 
"What  attraction  can  you  find  here? 
Maria  and  I  were  just  saying  that  we 
would  leave  it  to-night." 

"  It's  as  good  as  any  other  of  these 
German  places,  for  all  I  see,"  care- 
lessly remarked  Mr.  Verrall.  "How 
well  you  are  looking  !"  he  added  to 
George. 

"  I  cannot  pay  you  the  same  com- 
pliment," Mrs.Verrall  said  to  Maria. 
"What  have  you  done  with  your 
roses  ?'*' 

Maria's  "  roses"  came  vividly  into, 
her  cheeks  at  the  question.  "  I  am 
not  in  strong  health  just  now,"  was 
all  she  answered. 

George  smiled.  "There's  nothing 
serious  the  matter,  Mrs.Verrall,"  said 
he.  "  Maria  will  find  her  roses  again 
after  a  while.  Charlotte  has — I  was 
going   to   say   changed    her    name," 


162 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


broke  off  George:  "but  in  her  case 
that  would  be  a  wrong  figure  of  speech. 
She  is  married,  we  hear." 

"  Long  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Yerrall. 
"  Charlotte's  quite  an  old  married 
woman  by  this  time.  It  took  place 
— let  me  see  ? — last  November.  They 
live  in  London." 

"Mr.  Pain  is  her  cousin,  is  he  not  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  was  an  old  engagement," 
continued  Mrs.  Yerrall,  looking  at 
George.  "  Many  a  time,  when  she 
and  you  were  flirting  together,  I  had 
to  call  her  to  account,  and  remind  her 
of  Mr.  Pain." 

George  could  not  remember  that 
Mrs.  Yerrall  had  ever  done  such  a 
thing  in  his  presence  :  she  had  been 
rather  remarkable  for  non-interfer- 
ence,— for  leaving  him  and  Charlotte 
to  go  their  own  way.  But  he  did  not 
say  so. 

They  turned  and  continued  their 
walk  together.  George — he  had  lost 
none  of  his  gallantry — taking  his  place 
by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Yerrall. 

In  passing  a  spot  where  there  was 
partial  obstruction,  some  confusion 
occurred.  A  house  was  under  repair, 
and  earth  and  stones  lay  half-way 
across  the  street,  giving  barely  room 
for  any  vehicle  to  pass.  Just  as  they 
were  opposite  this,  a  lumbering  coach, 
containing  a  gay  party  inside,  with 
white  bows  in  their  caps — probably  a 
christening — came  rattling  up  at  a 
sharp  pace.  George  Godolphin,  tak- 
ing Mrs.YerralTs  hand,  piloted  her  to 
safety.  Maria  was  not  so  fortunate. 
Mr.  Yerrall  was  a  little  behind  her  or 
before  her  :  at  any  rate,  he  wras  not 
adroit  enough  to  assist  her  at  the 
right  moment;  and  Maria,  seeing  no 
escape  between  the  coach  and  the 
debris,  jumped  upon  the  latter,  a 
great  mound  of  it.  The  awkward 
stones  moved  under  her  feet,  and  she 
slipped  off  again  with  a  jerk  on  the 
other  side.  It  did  not  hurt  her  much, 
but  it  shook  her  greatly.  George, 
who  was  looking  back  at  the  time,  had 
sprung  back  and  caught  her,  before 
Mr. Yerrall  well  saw  what  had  oc- 
curred. 

"  My  darling,  how  did  it  happen  ? 


Are  you  hurt  ?  Yerrall,  could  you 
not  have  taken  better  care  ?"  reiterat- 
ed George,  his  face  flushed  with  emo- 
tion and  alarm. 

Maria  leaned  heavily  upon  him, 
and  drew  a  long  breath  before  she 
could  speak.    "  I  am  not  hurt,  George." 

"Are  you  sure  ?"  he  anxiously  cried. 

Maria  smiled  reassuringly.  "  It  is 
nothing,  indeed.  It  has  only  shaken 
me.  See  !  I  came  right  off  that  heap. 
I  must  have  been  careless,  I  think." 

George  turned  to  look  at  the  "  heap." 
A  good  heap  it  was,  about  three  feet 
from  the  ground.  She  had  alighted 
on  her  feet;  not  quite  falling;  but 
staggering  with  the  lower  part  of  her 
back  against  the  stones.  Mrs.  Yerrall 
shook  the  dust  off  her  dress  behind, 
and  Mr.  Yerrall  apologized  for  his  in- 
attention. 

George  took  her  upon  his  arm,  with 
an  air  that  seemed  to  intimate  he 
should  not  trust  her  to  anybody  again, 
and  they  went  back  to  their  hotel, 
Mrs.  Yerrall  saying  she  should  call  in 
upon  them  in  half  an  hour's  time. 

Maria  was  looking  pale ;  cpiito 
white.  George,  in  much  concern,  un- 
tied her  bonnet-strings.  "  Maria,  I 
fear  you  are  hurt !" 

"  Indeed  I  am  not — as  I  believe," 
she  answered.  "  Why  do  you  think 
so  ?" 

"  Because  you  are  not  looking  well. " 

"I  was  startled  at  the  time;  fright- 
ened. I  shall  overget  it  directly, 
George. " 

"  I  think  you  had  better  see  a  doc- 
tor. I  suppose  there's  a  decent  one  to 
be  found  in  the  town." 

"  Oh  no  !"  returned  Maria,  with 
much  emphasis,  in  her  surprise.  "  See 
a  doctor  because  I  slipped  down  a  lit- 
tle way  !  Wrhy,  George,  that  would 
be  foolish  !  I  have  often  jumped  from 
a  higher  height  than  that.  Do  you 
remember  the  old  wall  at  the  rectory  ? 
We  children  were  forever  jumping 
from  it." 

"  That  was  one  time  and  this  is  an- 
other, Mrs.  George  Godolphin,"  said 
he,  significantly. 

Maria  laughed.  "  Only  fancy  the 
absurdity,    George  !     Were   a  doctui 


TIIE      SHADOW      OF      1SHLYDYAT, 


163 


called  in,  his  first  question  would  be, 
'  Where  are  you  hurt,  madame  ?'  '  Not 
anywhere,  monsieur,'  would  be  my  re- 
ply. '  Then  what  do  you  want  with 
with  me  V  he'd  say ;  and  how  foolish 
I  should  look  !" 

George  laughed  too,  and  resigned  the 
point  "  You  are  the  best  judge,  of 
course,  Maria.  Margery,"  lie  contin- 
ued,— for  Margery  at  that  moment  en- 
tered the  room, — "your  mistress  has 
had  a  fall." 

"  Had  a  fall !"  uttered  Margery,  in 
her  abrupt  manner,  as  she  turned 
round  to  regard  Maria. 

"  It  could  not  be  called  a  fall,  Mar- 
gery," said  Maria,  slightingly.  "  I 
slipped  off  some  earth  and  stuff.  I  did 
not  quite  fall." 

"  Be  you  hurt,  ma'am  ?" 

"  It  did  not  hurt  me  at  all.  It  only 
shook  me." 

"Nasty  things,  them  slips  be  some- 
times !"  resumed  Margery.  "  I  have 
known  pretty  good  bouts  of  illness 
grow  out  of  'em." 

George  did  not  relish  the  remark. 
He  deemed  it  thoughtless  of  Margery 
to  make  it  in  the  presence  of  his  wife, 
under  the  circumstances.  "  You  must 
croak,  or  it  would  not  be  you,  Mar- 
gery," said  he,  in  a  cross  tone. 

It  a  little  put  up  Margery.  "  I  can 
tell  you  what,  Master  George,"  cried 
she  ;  "  that  your  own  mother  was  in 
her  bed  for  eight  weeks,  through  noth- 
ing on  earth  but  slipping  down  two 
stairs.  I  say  them  shakes  are  ticklish 
things, — when  the  body's  not  in  a  con- 
dition to  bear  'em.  Ma'am,  you  must 
just  take  my  advice,  and  lie. yourself 
down  on  that  sofa,  and  not  get  off  it 
for  the  day.  There  ain't  a  doctor  in 
the  land  as  knows  any  thing,  but  'ud 
say  the  same." 

Margery  was  peremptory ;  George 
joined  her  in  being  peremptory  also  ; 
and  Maria,  with  much  laughter  and 
protestation,  was  fain  to  let  them  put 
her  on  the  sofa.  "  Just  as  if  I  were 
ill,  or  delicate  3"  she  grumbled. 

"  And  pray,  ma'am,  what  do  you 
call  yourself  but  delicate  ?  You  are 
not  one  of  the  strong  ones,"  cried  Mar- 
gery, as  she  left  the  room  for  a  shawl. 


George  drew  his  wife's  face  to  his 
in  an  impulse  of  affection,  and  began 
kissing  it.  "  Don't  pay  attention  to 
Margery's  croaking,  my  dearest,"  he 
fondly  said.  "  But  she  is  quite  right 
in  recommending  you  to  lie  still.  It 
will  rest  you." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  go  to  sleep, — con- 
demned to  lie  here, "said  Maria,smiling. 

"  The  best  thing  you  can  do,"  said 
George.  "  Catch  me  trusting  you  to 
anybody's  care  again  !" 

In  a  short  while  Mrs.  Yerrall  came 
in,  and  told  George  that  her  husband 
was  waiting  for  him  outside.  George 
went  out,  and  Mrs.  Yerrall  sat  down 
by  Maria. 

"  It  is  Margery's  doings,  Margery's 
and  George's,"  cried  Maria,  as  if  she 
would  apologize  for  being  found  on 
the  sofa,  covered  up  like  an  invalid. 
"  They  made  me  lie  down." 

"  Are  you  happy  ?"  Mrs.  Yerrall 
somewhat  abruptly  asked. 

"  Happy  ?"  repeated  Maria,  at  a 
loss  to  understand  the  exact  meaning. 

"  Happy  with  George  Godolphin. 
Are  you  and  he  happy  with  each 
other?" 

A  soft  blush  overspread  Maria's 
face  ;  a  light  of  love  shone  in  her  eyes. 
"  Oh,  so  happy !"  she  murmured. 
"  Mrs.  Verrall,  I  wonder  sometimes 
whether  any  one  in  all  the  world  is  as 
happy  as  I  am!" 

"  Because  it  struck  me  that  you  are 
changed, — that  you  look  ill." 

"  Oh,  that,"  returned  Maria,  with  a 
rosier  blush  still.  "  Can't  you  guess 
the  cause  of  that,  Mrs.  Yerrall  ?  As 
George  told  you,  I  shall,  I  hope,  look 
well  again  after  a  while." 

Mrs.  Yerrall  shrugged  her  shoulders 
with  indifference.  She  had  never  lost 
her  bloom  from  any  such  cause. 

Maria  found — or  Margery  did  for 
her — that  the  fall  had  shaken  her  more 
than  was  expedient.  After  all,  a  med- 
ical man  had  to  be  called  in.  Illness 
supervened.  It  was  not  a  very  serious 
illness,  and  not  at  all  dangerous ;  but 
it  had  the  effect  of  detaining  them  at 
Homburg.  Maria  lay  in  bed,  and 
George  spent  most  of  his  time  with 
the  Yerralls. 


164 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


With  Mr.  Yerrall  chiefly.  Especially 
in  an  evening.  George  would  go  out, 
sometimes  before  dinner,  sometimes 
after  it,  and  come  home  so  late  that 
he  did  not  venture  into  Maria's  room 
to  say  good-night  to  her.  Since  her 
illness  he  had  occupied  an  adjoining 
chamber.  It  did  Maria  no  good  :  she 
would  get  flushed,  excited,  heated : 
and  when  George  did  come  in,  he 
would  look  flushed  and  excited  also. 

"  But,  George,  where  do  you  stay  so 
late  ?" 

"Only  with  Yerrall." 

"  You  look  so  hot.  I  am  sure  you 
are  feverish." 

"  The  rooms  were  very  hot.  We 
have  been  watching  them  play.  Good- 
night, darling.    I  wish  you  were  well !" 

Watching  them  play  !  It  is  your 
first  deceit  to  your  wife,  George  Go- 
dolphin  ;  and,  rely  upon  it,  no  good 
will  come  of  it.  Mr.  Yerrall  had  in- 
troduced George  to  the  dangerous 
gaming  salles  ;  had  contrived  to  im- 
bue him  with  a  liking  for  the  insidious 
vice.  Did  he  do  so  with — as  our 
terms  of  law  express  it — malice  afore- 
thought ?"  Let  the  response  lie  with 
Mr.  Yerrall. 

On  the  very  first  evening  that  they 
were  together,  the  day  of  the  slight 
accident  to  Maria,  Mr.  Yerrall  asked 
George  to  dine  with  him  ;  and  he  af- 
terwards took  him  to  the  tables. 
George  did  not  play  that  evening ; 
but  George  grew  excited,  watching 
others  play.  Heavy  stakes  were  lost 
and  won  ;  evil  passions  were  called 
forth;  avarice,  hatred,  despair.  Mr. 
Yerrall  played  for  a  small  sum  ;  and 
won.  "  It  whiles  away  an  hour  or 
two,"  he  cai'elessly  remarked  to 
George  as  they  were  leaving.  "  And 
one  can  take  care  of  oneself." 

"  All  can't  take  care  of  themselves, 
apparently,"  answered  George  Godol- 
phin.  "Did  you  observe  that  hag- 
gard-looking Englishman,  leaning 
against  the  wall  and  biting  his  nails 
when  his  money  had  gone  ?  The  ex- 
pression of  that  man's  face  will  haunt 
me  for  a  week  to  come.  Those  are 
the  men  that  commit  suicide." 

Mr.  Yerrall  smiled,  half  mockingly. 


"  Suicide  !  Not  they,"  he  answered. 
"  The  man  will  be  there  to-morrow 
evening  refeathered. " 

"  I  never  felt  more  pity  for  any  one 
in  my  life,"  continued  George.  "  There 
was  despair  in  his  face,  if  I  ever  saw 
despair.  I  could  have  found  in  my 
heart  to  go  up  and  offer  him  my 
purse ;  only  I  knew  it  would  be  staked 
the  next  moment  at  the  green  table." 

"  You  did  not  know  him,  then  ?" 

"  No." 

Mr.  Yerrall  mentioned  the  man's 
name,  and  George  felt  momentarily 
surprised.  He  was  a  baronet's  eldest 
son. 

The  next  evening  came  round.  Ma- 
ria was  confined  to  her  bed  then,  and 
George  a  gentleman  at  large, — a  gen- 
tleman at  large  to  be  pounced  upon 
by  Mr.  Yerrall.  He  came — Yerrall — 
and  carried  George  off  again  to  din- 
ner. 

"  Let  us  take  a  stroll,"  said  he,  later 
in  the  evening. 

Their  stroll  took  them  towards  the 
scene  of  the  night  before,  Mr.Yerrall's 
being  the  moving  will.  "  Shall  we 
see  who's  there  ?"  he  said,  with  great 
apparent  indifference. 

George  answered  as  indifferently  : 
but  there  was  an  under-current  of 
meaning  in  his  tone,  wonderful  for 
careless  George  Godolphin.  "  Better 
keep  out  of  temptation." 

Mr. Yerrall  laughed  till  the  tears 
came  into  his  eyes  :  he  said  George 
made  him  laugh.  "  Come  along,1' 
cried  he,  in  a  mocking  tone.  "  I'll 
take  care  of  you. " 

That  night  George  played, — a  little. 
"  As  well  put  a  gold  piece  down," 
Mr.  Yerrall  whispered  to  him.  "  I 
shall."  George  staked  more  than  one 
gold  piece, — and  won.  A  fortnight 
had  gone  over  since,  and  George  Go- 
dolphin  had  become  imbued  with  the 
fearful  passion  of  gambling, — at  any 
rate,  imbued  with  it  temporarily :  it 
is  to  be  hoped  that  he  will  leave  it  be- 
hind him  when  he  leaves  Homburg. 

Just  look  at  him,  as  he  stands  over 
that  green  cloth,  with  a  flushed  face 
and  eager  eyes  !  He  is  of  finer  form, 
of  loftier  stature  than  most  of  those 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


165 


who  are  crowding  round  the  tables ; 
his  features  betray  higher  intellect, 
greater  refinement;  but  the  same  pas- 
sions are  just  now  distorting  them. 
Mr.Verrall  is  by  his  side,  cool,  calm, 
impassive  :  somehow  that  man,  Ver- 
rall,  always  wins.  If  he  did  not,  he'd 
not  lose  his  coolness  :  he  would  only 
leave  the  tables. 

"  Rouge  !"  called  George. 

It  was  noir.  George  flung  his  last 
money  on  the  board,  and  moved  away. 

Mr.Verrall  followed  him.  "  Tired 
already  ?" 

Mr.  George  let  slip  a  furious  word. 
"  The  lack  has  been  against  me  all 
along, — nearly  from  the  first  night  I 
played  here.    I  am  cleaned  out  again." 

"  I  can  let  you  have " 

"  Thank  you  !"  hastily  interrupted 
George.  "  You  are  very  accommo- 
dating, Verrall,  but  it  seems  we  may 
go  on  at  the  same  thing  forever, — I 
losing,  and  you  finding  me  money. 
How  much  is  it  that  I  owe  you  alto- 
gether ?" 

"A  bagatelle.     Never  mind  that." 

"A  bagatelle!"  repeated  George. 
"  It's  well  money  is  so  valueless  to 
you  :  /don't  call  it  one.  And  I  have 
never  been  a  man  given  to  look  at 
money  before  spending  it." 

"  You  can  pay  me  when  and  how 
you  like, — this  year,  next  year,  the 
year  after, — I  shan't  sue  you  for  it," 
laughed  Mr.Verrall.  "  There,  go  along 
and  redeem  your  luck." 

He  held  out  a  heavy  roll  of  notes  to 
George.  The  latter's  eager  fingers 
clutched  hold  of  them  ;  but,  even  as 
they  were  within  his  grasp,  better 
thoughts  came  over  him.  He  pushed 
them  back  again. 

"  I  am  too  deep  in  vour  debt  already, 
Verrall." 

"  As  you  please,"  returned  Mr.Ver- 
rall, with  indifference.  "  There  the 
notes  are,  lying  idle.  As  to  wdiat 
you  have  had,  if  it's  such  a  dreadful 
burden  on  your  conscience,  you  can 
give  me  interest  for  it.  You  can  let 
the  principal  lie,  I  say,  if  it  is  for  ten 
years  to  come.  One  half  hour's  play 
with  these  notes  may  redeem  all  you 
have  lost." 


He  left  the  notes  lying  by  George 
Godolphin, — by  hesitating  George. — 
with  the  fierce  passion  to  use  them 
that  was  burning  within  him.  ~\lv. 
Verrall  could  not  have  taken  a  more 
efficient  way  of  inducing  him  to  play 
again  than  to  affect  this  easy  indiffer- 
ence of  manner,  and  to  leave  the 
money  under  his  eyes,  touching  his 
fingers,  fevering  his  brain.  George 
took  up  the  notes. 

"  You  are  sure  you  will  let  me  pay 
you  interest, Verrall  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will." 

And  George  walked  off  to  the 
gaming-table. 

He  went  home  later  that  night  than 
he  had  gone  at  all,  wiping  the  per- 
spiration from  his  brow,  lifting  his 
face  to  the  quiet  stars,  and  gasping  to 
catch  a  breath  of  air.  Mr.Verrall 
found  it  rather  cool  than  not ;  shrug- 
ged his  shoulders,  and  said  he  could 
do  with  an  overcoat;  but  George  felt 
stifled.  The  roll  had  gpne,  and  some 
more  to  it, — had  gone,  and  George 
Godolphin  was  Mr.  Verrall's  debtor  to 
a  heavy  amount. 

"  Thank  goodness  the  day  has  al- 
ready dawned  !"  involuntarily  broke 
forth  George. 

Mr.Verrall  looked  at  him  for  an 
explanation.  He  did  not  understand 
what  particular  cause  for  thankfulness 
there  should  be  in  that. 

"  We  shall  get  away  from  the  place 
to-day,"  said  George.  "  If  I  stopped 
in  it  I  should  come  to  the  dogs." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  cried  Mr. 
Verrall.  "  Luck  is  safe  to  turn  some 
time.  It's  like  the  tide  :  it  has  its 
time  for  flowing  in,  and  its  time  for 
flowing  out :  once  let  it  turn,  and  it 
comes  rushing  in  all  one  way.  But, 
what  do  you  mean  about  going  ?  Your 
wife  is  not  well  enough  to  travel  yet." 

"Yes  she  is,"  was  George's  answer. 
'"  Quite  well  enough." 

"  Of  course  you  know  best.  I  think 
you  should  consider " 

"Verrall,  I  should  consider  my 
wife's  health  and  safety  before  any 
earthly  thing,"  interrupted  George. 
"  We  might  have  started  to-day,  had 
we  liked, — I  speak  of  the  day  that  has 


166 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


gone.  The  doctor  said  yesterday  that 
she  was  well  enough  to  travel." 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  that.  I  shall 
stay  here  a  week  longer." 

"  And  I  shall  be  away  before  to- 
morrow night." 

"  Not  you,"  cried  Mr.  Yerrall. 

"  I  shall :  if  I  keep  in  the  mind  I  am 
in  now." 

Mr.  Yerrall  smiled.  He  knew 
George  was  not  over-famous  for  keep- 
ing his  resolutions.  In  the  morn- 
ing, when  his  smarting  should  be 
over,  he  would  stay  on,  fast  enough. 
They  wished  each  other  good  night, 
and  George  turned  into  his  hotel. 

To  his  great  surprise,  Margery  met 
him  on  the  stairs.  "  Are  you  walk- 
ing the  house  like  the  ghosts  ?"  cried 
he,  with  a  renewal  of  his  good  humor. 
Nothing  pleased  George  better  than 
to  give  old  Margery  a  joking  or  a 
teazing  word.  "  Why  are  you  not  in 
bed  ?" 

"  There's  enough  real  ghosts  in  the 
world,  as  is  my  belief,  without  my 
personating  'em,  sir,"  was  Margery's 
Riiswer.  "I'm  not  in  bed  yet,  because 
my  mistress  is  not  in  bed." 

"  Your  mistress  not  in  bed  !"  re- 
peated George.  "But  that  is  very 
wrong." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Margery.  "  But 
it  has  been  of  no  use  my  telling  her 
so.  She  took  it  into  her  head  to  sit 
up  for  you  ;  and  sit  up  she  has.  Not 
there,  sir," — for  he  was  turning  to 
their  sitting-room — "she  is  a  lying 
back  in  the  big  chair  in  her  bed- 
chamber." 

George  entered.  Maria,  white  and 
wan  and  tired,  was  lying  back,  as 
Margery  expressed  it,  in  the  large 
easy-chair.  She  was  too  fatigued, 
too  exhausted  to  get  up:  she  only 
held  out  her  hand  to  her  husband. 

"  My  darling,  you  know  this  is 
wrong,"  he  gently  said,  bending  over 
her.  "  Good  heavens,  Maria  !  how- 
ill  and  tired  you  look." 

"  I  should  not  have  slept  had  I  gone 
to-bed,"  she  said.  "  George,  tell  me 
where  you  have  been  :  where  it  is  that 
you  go  in  an  evening." 

Almsgiving  crossed  George  Godol- 


phin's  mind — that  she  already  knew. 
She  looked  painfully  distressed,  and 
there  was  a  peculiar  significance  in 
her  tone,  but  she  spoke  with  timid  de- 
precation. His  conscience  told  him  that 
the  amusement  be  had  been  recently 
pursuing  would  not  shine  well  in  the 
broad  light  of  day.  An  unmarried 
man  may  send  himself  to  ruin  if  it 
pleases  himself  to  do  it ;  but  not  one 
who  has  assumed  the  responsibilities 
that  George  Godolphin  had.  Buin, 
however,  had  not  yet  come  to  George 
Godolphin,  or  fear  of  ruin.  The 
worst  that  had  happened  was,  that  he 
had  contracted  a  debt  to  Mr.  Yerrall, 
which  he  did  not  at  present  see  his 
way  clear  to  pay.  He  could  not  pay 
so  large  a  sum  out  of  the  bank  with- 
out the  question  being  put  by  his 
partners,  Where  does  it  go  to  ?  Mr. 
Yerrall  had,  however,  relieved  him  of 
the  embarrassment  by  suggesting  in- 
terest. A  very  easy  settling  of  the 
question  it  appeared  to  the  careless 
mind  of  George  Godolphin  :  and  he 
felt  obliged  to  Mr.  Yerrall. 

"Maria!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  are 
you  thinking  of?  What  is  the  matter  ?'* 

Maria  changed  her  position.  She 
let  her  head  slip  from  the  easy-chair 
on  to  his  sheltering  arm.  "Mrs.  Yerrall 
frightened  me,  George.  Will  you  be 
angry  Avith  me  if  I  tell  you  ?  She 
came  in  this  evening,  and  she  said  you 
and  Mr.  Yerrall  were  losing  all  your 
money  at  the  gaming-table." 

George  Godolphin's  face  grew  hot 
and  angry,  worse  than  it  had  been  in 
the  gambling-room,  and  he  gave  Mrs. 
Yerrall  an  exceedingly  complimentary! 
mental  word.  "  What  possessed  her  to 
say  that  ?"  he  exclaimed.  And  in 
truth  he  wondered  what  could  have 
possessed  her.  Yerrall,  at  any  rate 
was  not  losing  his  money.  "Were 
you  so  foolish  as  to  believe  it,  Maria  ?" 

"  Only  a  little  of  it,  George.  Pray 
forgive  me  !  I  am  weak  just  now, 
you  know,  and  things  startle  me.  I 
have  heard  dreadful  tales  of  these 
foreign  gaming-places :  and  I  knew 
how  much  you  had  been  out  at  night 
since  we  came  here.  "It  is  not  so. 
is  it,  George  ?" 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  I)  Y  A  T 


167 


George  made  a  show  of  laughing 
at  her  anxiety.  "  I  and  Yerrall  have 
strolled  into  the  places  and  watched 
the  play,"  said  he.  "We  have  staked 
a  few  coins  ourselves, — not  to  be  look- 
ed upon  as  two  churls  who  put  their 
British  noses  into  every  thing  and 
then  won't  pay  for  the  sight.  I  lost 
what  I  staked,  with  a  good  grace ; 
but,  as  to  Yerrall,  I  don't  believe  he 
is  a  half-penny  out  of  pocket.  Mrs. 
Yerrall  must  have  been  quarrelling 
with  her  husband,  and  so  thought 
she'd  say  something  to  spite  him. 
And  my  wife  must  take  it  for  gospel, 
and  begin  to  fret  herself  into  a  fever  !" 

Maria  drew  a  long,  relieved  breath. 
The  address  was  candid,  the  manner 
was  playful  and  tender  :  and  she  pos- 
sessed the  most  implicit  faith  in  her 
husband.  Maria  had  doubted  almost 
the  whole  world,  before  she  could 
have  doubted  George  Godolphin. 
She  drew  his  face  down  upon  hers, 
once  more  whispering  that  he  was  to 
forgive  her  for  being  so  silly. 

"  My  dearest,  I  have  been  thinking 
that  we  may  as  well  go  on  to-morrow. 
To-day,  that  is  :  I  won't  tell  you  the 
time,  if  you  don't  know  it;  but  it's 
morning." 

She  knew  the  time  quite  well. 
No  anxious  wife  ever  sat  up  for  a 
husband  yet,  but  knew  it.  In  her  im- 
patience to  be  away — for  she  was 
most  desirous  of  being  at  home  again 
— she  could  take  note  of  the  one  sen- 
tence only.  "Oh,  George,  yes  1  Let 
us  go  !" 

"Will  you  promise  to  get  a  good 
night's  rest  first,  and  not  attempt  to 
be  out  of  bed  before  eleven  o'clock  to- 
morrow morning,  then  ?" 

"  George,  I  will  promise  you  any 
thing,"  she  cried,  with  a  radiant  face. 
"  Only  say  we  shall  start  for  home 
to-morrow  !" 

"Yes,  we  will." 

And,  somewhat  to  Mr.  Yerrall's 
surprise,  they  did  start.  That  gentle- 
man made  no  attempt  to  detain  them. 
"But  it  is  shabby  of  you  both  to  go 
off  like  this,  and  leave  us  amid  these 
foreigners,  like  babes  in  the  wood," 
said  he,  when  Maria  was  already  in 


the  carriage,  and  George  was  about 
to  step  into  it. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  prevent  your 
leaving  too,  is  there,  Mr.  Yerrall  V 
asked  Maria,  leaning  forward.  "And 
what  did  you  and  Mrs.  Yerrall  do  be- 
fore we  came  ?  You  had  been  babe? 
in  the  wood  a  fortnight  then." 

"  Fairly  put,  young  lady,"  returned 
Mr.  Yerrall.  "  I  must  congratulate 
you  on  one  thing,  Mrs.  George  Godol- 
phin :  that,  in  spite  of  your  recent  in- 
disposition, you  are  looking  more  like 
yourself  to-day  than  I  have  seen  vou 

yet." 

"  That  is  because  I  am  going  home," 
said  Maria. 

And  home  they  reached  in  safety. 
The  continental  land -journey,  the 
pleasant  sea-trip, — for  the  day  and 
the  waters  were  alike  calm, — and 
then  the  land  again,  all  grew  into 
things  of  the  past,  and  they  were 
once  more  back  at  Prior's  Ash.  As 
they  drove  to  the  bank  from  the  rail- 
way-station, Maria  looked  up  at  the 
house  when  it  came  in  sight,  a  thrill 
of  joy  running  through  her  heart. 
What  a  happy  home  it  will  be  for  me  ! 
was  her  glad  thought. 

"  What  would  Thomas  and  old 
Crosse  say,  if  they  knew  I  had  dipped 
into  it  so  deep  at  Homburg  !"  was  the 
involuntary  thought  which  flashed 
across  George  Godolphin. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

HOME. 

George  Godolphin  and  Maria  were 
holding  a  levee.  It  could  be  called 
nothing  else.  Not  very  strong  yet, 
George  would  only  allow  Maria  to 
travel  by  easy  journeys,  and  they  had 
arrived  at  home  early  in  the  afternoon. 
Mrs.  Hastings  and  Grace,  Bessy  and 
Cecil  Godolphin,  Thomas  Godolphin 
and  Mr.  Crosse,  all  were  crowding 
into  the  back-parlor  to  welcome  them. 
Not  the  business-parlor;  but  the  large 
and  pleasant  dining-room,  used  also 


168 


THE       SHADOW       OF       ASHLYDYAT 


as  a  sitting-room,  on  the  right  of  the 
private  entrance  ;  the  room  that  used 
to  be  the  chief  sitting-room  of  the  Miss 
Godolphins. 

Maria  had  thrown  off  her  bonnet 
and  shawl,  and  stood  amidst  them  all, 
in  her  dark-silk  traveling-dress,  some- 
what creased.  There  was  no  mistak- 
ing that  she  was  intensely  happy: 
her  eye  was  radiant,  her  color  softly 
bright,  her  fair  young  face  without  a 
cloud.  And  now  walked  in  the  rector 
of  All  Souls',  having  escaped  (noth- 
ing loth)  from  a  stormy  vestry-meet- 
ing to  see  Maria.  Miss  Godolphin 
was  not  there  :  temporary  indisposi- 
tion kept  her  at  Ashlydyat.  In  the 
spring  and  autumn  of  the  year  she 
would  be  occasionally  troubled  with  a 
heating  humor  in  the  legs,  a  species 
of  erysipelas,  and  it  confined  her  with- 
in doors. 

"  I  have  brought  her  home  safe,  you 
sec,  sir,"  George  said  to  Mr.  Hastings, 
leading  Maria  up  to  him. 

"  And  yourself  also,"  was  the  rec- 
tor's reply.  "  You  are  worth  two  of 
the  shaky  man  that  went  away." 

"  I  told  you  I  should  be,  sir,  if  you 
allowed  Maria  to  go  with  me,"  cried 
ready,  gallant  George.  "  I  do  not 
fancy  we  are  either  of  us  the  worse  for 
our  sojourn  abroad." 

"  I  don't  think  either  of  you  look  as 
though  you  were,"  said  the  rector. 
"  Maria  is  thin.  I  suppose  you  are 
not  sorry  to  come  home,  Miss  Maria  ?" 

"  So  glad  !"  she  said.  "  I  began  to 
think  it  very,  very  long,  not  to  see  you 
all.  But,vpapa,  I  am  not  Miss  Maria 
now." 

"  You  saucy  child  !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Hastings.  Hut  the  rector  had  the 
laugh  against  him.  Mrs.  Hastings 
drew  Maria  aside. 

"  My  dear,  you  have  been  ill,  George 
wrote  me  word.  How  did  it  happen  ? 
We  were  so  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"Yes,  we  were  sorry  too,"  replied 
Maria,  her  eyelashes  resting  on  her 
hot  cheek.     "  It  could  not  be  helped." 

"  But  how  did  it  happen  ?" 

"  It  was  my  own  fault :  not  my  in- 
tentional fault,  you  know,  mamma. 
It  occurred  the  dav  after  we  reached 


Homburg.  I  and  George  were  out 
walking  and  we  met  the  Yerralls. 
We  turned  with  them,  and  then  I  had 
not  hold  of  George's  arm.  Something 
was  amiss  in  the  street,  a  great,  mess 
of  stones  and  earth  and  rubbish  ;  and, 
to  avoid  a  carriage  that  came  by,  I 
stepped  upon  it.  And  somehow  I 
slipped  off.  I  did  not  appear  to  have 
hurt  myself:  but  I  suppose  it  shook 
me." 

"  You  met  the  Yerralls  at  Hom- 
burg ?"  cried  Mrs.  Hastings,  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  Yes.  Did  George  not  mention  it 
when  he  wrote  ?  They  are  at  Homburg 
still.     Unless  they  have  now  left  it." 

"  George  never  puts  a  superfluous 
word  in  his  letters,"  said  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings, with  a  smile.  "  He  says  just 
what  he  has  to  say,  and  no  more.  He 
mentioned  that  you  were  not  well,  and 
therefore  some  little  delay  might  take 
place  in  the  return  home  :  but  he  said 
nothing  of  the  Yerralls." 

Maria  laughed.  "  George  never 
writes  a  long  letter " 

"Who's  that,  taking  George's  name 
in  vain  ?"  cried  George,  looking  round. 

"  It  is  I,  George.  You  never  told 
mamma,  when  you  wrote,  that  the 
Yerralls  were  with  us  at  Homburg." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  remember  wheth- 
er I  did  or  not,"  said  George. 

"  The  Yerralls  are  in  Wales,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Hastings." 

"  Then  they  have  traveled  to  it 
pretty  quickly,"  observed  George. 
"  When  I  and  Maria  left  Homburg  we 
left  them  in  it.  They  had  been  there 
a  month  then." 

Not  one  present  but  looked  up  with 
surprise.  "  The  impression  in  Prior's 
Ash  is,  that  they  are  in  Wales,"  ob- 
served Thomas  Godolphin.  "  It  is 
the  answer  given  by  the  servants  to 
all  callers  at  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly." 

"  They  are  certainly  at  Homburg, 
whatever  the  servants  may  say,"  per- 
sisted George.  "  The  servants  are 
laboring  under  a  mistake." 

"  It  is  a  curious  mistake  for  the 
servants  to  make,  though,"  observed 
the  rector,  in  a  dry,  caustic  tone. 

"I  think  the  Yerralls  are  curious 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  I)  Y  A  T , 


169 


people  altogether,"  said  Bessy  Godol- 
phin. 

"  I  don't  know  but  they  are,"  as- 
sented George.  "  But  Verrall  is  a 
thoroughly  good-hearted  man,  and  I 
shall  always  speak  up  for  him." 

Meanwhile  Margery  had  asked  leave 
of  Maria,  and  gone  up  to  Ashlydyat. 
Indeed,  it  was  not  much  "  asking- 
leave,"  for  that  was  not  greatly  Mar- 
gery's fashion.  "  I  must  go  up  and 
see  Miss  Godolphin,  ma'am,"  had  been 
what  she  said  to  Maria.  And  Maria 
good-naturedly  bade  her  not  hurry 
back. 

"  And  what  is  to  be  my  service, 
Miss  Janet  ?"  was  nearly  the  first 
question  asked  by  Margery  of  Miss 
Godolphin.  Nothing  had  been  said 
before  Margery  went  abroad,  whether 
she  was  to  return  to  Ashlydyat,  or  to 
continue  with  Maria  :  her  ostensible 
business  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George 
had  been  to — as  everybody  had  phrased 
it — look  after  him. 

"  You  know  I  should  like  you  back 
here,  Margery,"  Janet  replied.  "But 
it  shall  be  as  you  please." 

"  If  it  is  as  I  please,  I  shall  come 
back  for  certain,"  was  Margery's  an- 
swer. "Not  that  I  have  any  fault  to 
find  with  Master  George's  wife.  I 
like  her  better,  Miss  Janet,  than  I  had 
thought  it  possible  to  like  anybody  but 
a  Godolphin." 

"  She  is  a  Godolphin  now,  Mar- 
gery." 

"Ah,"  said  Margery.  "But  she's 
not  a  Godolphin  born,  Miss  Janet." 

That  evening,  George  and  his  wife 
dined  alone.  George  was  standing 
over  the  fire  after  dinner,  when  Maria 
came  and  stood  near  him.  He  put 
out  his  arm  and  drew  her  to  his  side. 

"  It  seems  so  strange,  George — the 
being  in  this  house  with  you  all  alone," 
she  whispered. 

"Stranger  than  being  my  wife, 
Maria  ?" 

"  Oh,  but  I  have  got  used  to  that." 

George  laughed :  she  spoke  so 
simply  and  naturally.  "You  will  get 
used  in  time  to  this  being  your  home, 
my  darling." 

"  I  shall  like  the  home  so  much  !     I 


hope   it  will   be    our   home   always, 
George." 

"  It  will  be  so.     Unless " 

"  Unless  what  ?  Why  do  you  stop  ?  " 

"I   stopped,  Maria,  because   I   felt 

ashamed  of  the  thought  that  had  come 

over  me.     Unless  Ashlydyat  should 

fall  in,  I  was  about  to  say." 

"Ashlydyat!  But,  George,  that 
only  comes  to  us  through  Thomas's 
death  !"  she  gravely  said. 

"  True.  I  say  I  was  ashamed  of 
the  thought :  it  came  to  me  without 
my  will.  I  sincerely  hope  that 
Thomas  may  enjoy  it  to  his  old  age. 
Suppose  we  go  up  and  see  Janet  P 
he  continued.  "  She  cannot  come 
out,  and  I  know  it  would  please  her. 
But  perhaps  vou  are  tired  to-night, 
Maria  ?" 

not.     I  should   like 
I  should  like  to  see 


"  Indeed  I  am 
the  walk.  And 
Janet." 

They  started, 
o'clock.     A  fine 


It  was  about  eight 
moonlight  evening, 
and  they  took  the  way  down  Crosse 
Street.  The  same  way  that  Thomas 
Godolphin  (if  you  remember  it)  had 
once  gone  ;  up  the  lonely  walk  and 
round  the  trees  to  the  Dark  Plain. 

Nothing  had  been  farther  from  the 
thoughts  both  of  George  Godolphin 
and  his  wife,  than  that  Dark  Plain's 
ominous  shadow,  the  reputed  fore- 
teller of  ill  to  the  Godolphins.  But 
the  Shadow  was  there.  Never  clearer, . 
never  darker,  never  more  palpably 
distinct,  had  it  been,  than  it  appeared 
now. 

Maria  had  never  seen  it,  and  the 
fact  of  what  it  was  did  not  at  once 
strike  her.  "  What's  that  ?"  she  asked 
of  George.  "  What  a  strange-looking 
Oh,  George  is  it  the  Shadow?" 

Her  voice  had  dropped  to  an  awe- 
struck tone.  George's  courage  ap- 
peared to  have  dropped  with  it.  lie 
stood,  startled :  gazing  at  it  with 
wondering  eyes. 

"  George,  is  it  the  Shadow  ?" 

"  It  is  what  they  call  the  Shadow, 
Maria,"  he  presently  said,  assuming  a 
careless  air. 

"  {Something  must  cast  it !"  she  ex- 
claimed. 


170 


T  II  E      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


"It  must,"  replied  George;  "it 
must,  and  it  does.  It  is  my  firm  con- 
viction that  we  shall  sometime  dis- 
cover what  it  is  that  does  cast  it,"  he 
continued,  too  earnestly  to  give  sus- 
picion of  an  evasive  meaning. 

Maria  was  gazing  at  the  Shadow, 
her  heart  beating  as  she  traced,  bit 
by  bit,  its  superstitious  form. 

"I  am  sure  that  it  arises  from 
natural  causes,"  George  continued, 
speaking  to  himself  more  than  to 
Maria.  "If  I  could  only  find  out 
whence  they  come  !  I  wonder  if  the 
archway  throws  out " 

A  shriek  at  Maria's  elbow.  It 
proved  to  be  from  Margery.  She 
had  come  quickly  up  on  her  way 
from  Ashlydyat,  and  had  caught  sight 
of  the  Shadow. 

"  What  brings  you  here  to-night  ?" 
she  uttered  in  a  sharp  tone,  quite  as 
if  she  were  their  equal  and  had  power 
to  order  them  about.  But  never  was 
Margery  more  faithful,  more  affec- 
tionate at  heart,  than  when  her  man- 
ner subsided  into  abruptness.  "And 
this  is  the  first  time  you  have  been 
on  the  Dark  Plain  since  your  mar- 
riage !"  she  went  rapidly  on,  in  very 
great  agitation.  "Oh,  sir,  you  know 
what  they  say  !  That  if  that  Shadow 
appears " 

George  turned  round  with  an  im- 
pei'ative  gesture ;  his  face  white, 
partly  with  emotion,  partly  with 
anger.  What  nonsense  was  she  about 
to  give  utterance  to,  in  the  hearing 
of  his  young  wife  ?  "  You  forget 
yourself  strangely,  Margery,"  was 
his  sharp  rebuke. 

Margery's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
Shadow,  and  her  hands  were  lifted  as 
if  in  dread  ;  in  pain.  "  I  could  be 
upon  my  Bible  oath,  if  necessary, 
that  it  was  not  there  a  few  minutes 
back,"  she  uttered.  "I  came  past 
here,  and  then  I  remembered  some- 
thing I  had  forgotten  at  Ashlydyat, 
and  went  back  for  it.  It  was  not 
there  then." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

SIXTY   POUNDS   TO   OLD   JEKYL. 

Standing  on  the  covered  terrace 
outside  the  dining-room  at  the  bank, 
in  all  the  warm  beauty  of  the  late  and 
lovely  spring  morning,  surrounded  by 
luxuriant  shrubs,  by  the  perfume  of 
flowers,  the  green  lawn  stretching  out 
before  her,  the  pleasant  sitting-room 
behind  her,  its  large  window  open  and 
its  paintings  on  the  walls  conspicuous, 
was  Maria  Godolphin.  She  wore  a 
morning-dress,  simple  and  pretty  as 
of  yore,  and  her  fair  face  had  lost  none 
of  its  beauty,  scarcely  any  of  its  youth. 
To  look  at  her,  you  would  not  think 
that  a  month  had  elapsed  since  she 
came  there,  to  her  home,  after  her 
marriage :  and  yet  the  time,  since 
then,  would  not  be  counted  by  months, 
but  by  years.  Six  years  and  a  half, 
turned,  it  is,  since  her  marriage  took 
place,  and  the  little  girl,  whom  Maria 
is  holding  by  the  hand,  is  five  years 
old.  Just  now  Maria's  face  is  all 
animation.  She  is  talking  to  the  child, 
and  talking  also  to  Jonathan  and 
David  Jekyl :  but  if  you  saw  her  at 
an  unoccupied  moment,  her  face  in 
repose,  you  might  detect  an  expres- 
sion of  settled  sadness  in  it.  It  arose 
from  the  loss  of  her  children.  Three 
had  died  in  succession,  one  after  the 
other ;  and  this  one,  the  eldest,  was 
the  only  child  remaining  to  her, — a 
wondrously  pretty  little  girl,  her 
naked  legs  peeping  between  her  frilled 
drawers  and  her  white  socks  ;  with 
the  soft  brown  eyes  of  her  mother, 
and  the  Saxon  curls  of  her  father. 
With  the  mother's  eyes  the  child  had 
inherited  her  mother's  gentle  tempera- 
ment :  and  Margery — who  had  found 
in  her  heart  to  leave  Ashlydyat  and 
become  the  nurse  of  George's  children 
— was  wont  to  say  that  she  never  had 
to  do  with  so  sweet-tempered  a  child. 
She  had  been  named  Maria  :  but  the 
name,  for  familiar  use,  was  corrupted 
into  Meta  :  not  to  clash  with  Maria's. 
She  held  her  mother's  hand,  and,  by 
dint   of   stretching   up    on    her   toes, 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T. 


171 


could  just  bring  lior  eyes  above  the 
marble-top  of  the  terrace  balustrade. 

"  Donatan,  why  don't  you  use  that 
bing  ting,  to-day  ?" 

Jonathan  looked  up,  a  broad  grin 
on  his  face.  He  delighted  in  little 
children.  He  liked  to  hear  them  call 
him  "Donatan:"  and  the  little  lady 
before  him  was  as  backward  in  the 
sound  of  the  "  th,"  as  if  she  had  been 
French.  "  She  means  the  scythe, 
ma'am,"  said  Jonathan. 

"  I  know  she  does,"  said  Maria. 
"  The  grass  does  not  want  mowing 
to-day,  Meta.  David,  do  you  not 
think  those  rose-trees  are  backward  ?" 

David  gave  a  grunt.  "  I  should 
wonder  if  they  was  for'ard.  There 
ain't  no  rose-trees  for  miles  round 
but  what  is  back'ard,  except  them  as 
have  been  nursed.  With  the  cutting 
spring  we've  had,  how  be  the  rose- 
trees  to  get  on,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

Jonathan  looked  round,  his  face 
quite  a  sunshine  compared  to  David's  : 
his  words  also.  "  They'll  come  on 
famous  now,  ma'am,  with  this  lovely 
weather.  Ten  days  of  it,  and  we  shall 
have  'em  all  out  in  bloom.  Little 
miss  shall  have  a  rare  posy  then,  and 
I'll  cut  off  the  thorns  first." 

"A  big  one,  mind,  Donatan,"  res- 
ponded the  young  lady,  beginning  to 
dance  her  feet  about  in  anticipation. 
The  child  had  a  particular  liking  for 
roses,  which  Jonathan  remembered. 
She  had  inherited  her  mother's  great 
love  for  flowers. 

"  David,  how  is  your  wife  ?"  asked 
Maria. 

"  I've  not  heard  as  there's  any  thing 
the  matter  with  her,"  was  David's 
phlegmatic  answer,  without  lifting 
his  face  from  the  bed.  He  and  Jon- 
athan were  both  engaged  nearly  at 
one  spot, — David,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, getting  through  more  work 
than  Jonathan. 

They  had  kept  that  garden  in  or- 
der for  Mr.  Crosse,  when  the  bank  was 
his  residence.  Also  for  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin  and  his  sisters,  the  short 
time  they  had  lived  there  ;  and  after- 
wards for  George.  George  had  now 
a  full  complement  of  servants, — rather 


more  than  a. complement,  indeed, — and 
one  of  them  might  well  have  attended 
that  small  garden.  Janet  had  sug- 
gested as  much :  but  easy  George 
continued  to  employ  the  Jekyls.  It 
was  not  often  that  the  two  attended 
together  ;  as  they  were  doing  on  this 
day. 

"  David,"  returned  Maria,  in  answer 
to  his  remark,  "  I  am  sure  you  must 
know  that  your  wife  is  often  ailing. 
She  is  any  thing  but  strong.  Only, 
she  is  always  merry  and  in  good  spir- 
its, and  so  people  take  her  to  be  better 
than  she  is.  She  is  quite  a  contrast 
to  you,  David,"  Maria  added,  with  a 
smile.  "You  don't  talk  and  laugh 
much." 

"  Talking  and  laughing  don't  get  on 
a  man's  work,  as  ever  I  heered  on," 
returned  David. 

"  Is  it  true  that  your  father  slipped 
yesterday  and  sprained  his  ankle  ?" 
continued  Maria.  "  I  heard  that  he 
did." 

"  True  enough,"  grunted  David. 

"  'Twas  all  along  of  his  good  fortin, 
ma'am,"  cried  good-tempered  Jona- 
than. "  He  was  so  elated  with  it  that 
he  slipped  down  Gaffer  Thorpe's  steps, 
where  he  was  going  to  tell  the  news, 
and  fell  upon  his  ancle.  The  damage 
ain't  of  much  account.  But  that's  old 
father  all  over !  Prime  him  up  with 
a  bit  of  good  fortin,  and  he's  all  cock- 
a-hoop." 

"  What  is  the  good  fortune  ?"  asked 
Maria. 

"It's  that  money  come  to  him  at 
last,  ma'am,  what  he  had  waited  for 
so  long.  I'm  sure  we  had  all  give  it 
up  for  lost :  and  father  he  stewed  and 
he  fretted  over  it,  a  wondering  always 
what  was  a  going  to  become  of  him  in 
his  old  age.  'Taint  so  very  much, 
neither." 

"  Sixty  pound  is  sixty  pound," 
grunted  David. 

"  Well,  so  it  is,"  acquiesced  Jonathan. 
"  And  father  he  looks  to  it  to  make 
him  more  comfortable  than  he  could 
be  from  his  profits  ;  his  honey,  and  his 
garden,  and  that.  He  was  like  a  child 
iast  night,  ma'am,  a  planning  what 
he'd  do  with  it.     I  telled  him  he  had 


172 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


better  put  it  into  the  bank  here  :  it 
'ud  be  safe  then." 

"  So  it  would,"  replied  Maria.  "  Tell 
him  I  say  so,  Jonathan.  It  will  be 
safe  here.  He  might  be  paid  interest 
for  it." 

"  I  will,  ma'am." 

Maria  spoke  the  words  in  hearty 
good  faith.  Her  mind  had  conjured 
up  a  vision  of  old  Jekyl  keeping  his 
'sixty  pounds  in  his  house,  in  the  foot 
of  some  old  stocking :  and  she  thought 
how  easily  he  might  be  robbed  of  it. 
"  Yes,  Jonathan,  tell  him  to  bring  it 
here  :  don't  let  him  keep  it  by  him,  to 
lose  it." 

Maria  had  another  auditor,  of  whose 
proximity  she  was  unconscious.  It 
was  her  mother.  Mrs.  Hastings  had 
been  admitted  by  a  servant,  and  came 
through  the  room  on  to  the  terrace, 
unheard  by  Maria.  The  little  girl's 
ears — like  all  children's — were  sharp, 
and  she  turned  her  head,  and  broke 
into  a  joyous  cry  of  "  Grandma  I" 
Maria  looked  round. 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  I  did  not  know  you 
were  here.  Are  you  quite  well  ?  I 
was  busy  talking  to  Jonathan  and  Da- 
vid, and  did  not  hear  you.  Old  Jekyl 
lias  come  into  a  little  money.  I  tell 
them  not  to  let  him  keep  it  by  him  to 
be  lost,  but  to  bring  it  to  the  bank." 

Mrs.  Hastings  withdrew  within  the 
room,  and  sat  down.  Maria  followed. 
She  fancied  her  mother  was  looking 
dispirited. 

"  Yes,  child,"  was  Mrs.  Hastings's 
reply  to  the  question.  "  We  have 
had  news  from  Reginald  this  morning, 
and  the  news  is  not  good.  He  has 
been  getting  into  some  disagreeable 
scrape,  over  there,  and  it  has  taken  a 
hundred  pounds  or  two  to  get  him 
clear. — which,  of  course,  they  come 
upon  us  for." 

Maria's  countenance  fell.  "  Regi- 
nald is  very  unlucky.  He  seems  al- 
ways to  be  getting  into  scrapes." 

•'  He  always  is,"  said  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings. "  We  thought  he  could  not  get 
into  mischief  at  sea :  but  it  appears 
that  he  does.  The  ship  was  at  Cal- 
cutta still,  but  they  were  expecting 
daily  to  sail  for  home." 


"  What  is  it  that  he  has  been  do- 
ing ?"  asked  Maria. 

"  I  do  not  epiite  understand  what." 
replied  Mrs.  Hastings.  "  I  saw  his 
letter,  but  that  was  not  very  explana- 
tory. What  it  chiefly  contained  were 
expressions  of  contrition,  and  promises 
of  amendment.  The  captain  wrote  to 
your  papa:  and  that  letter  he  would 
not  give  me  to  read.  Your  papa's 
motive  was  a  good  one,  no  doubt, — to 
save  me  vexation.  But,  my  dear,  he 
forgets  that  uncertainty  causes  the 
imagination  to  run  loose,  and  to  con- 
jure up  fears,  worse,  probably,  than 
the  reality." 

"  As  Reginald  gets  older,  he  will 
get  steadier,"  remarked  Maria.  "  And 
mamma,  whatever  it  may  be,  your 
grieving  over  it  will  not  mend  it." 

"True,"  replied  Mrs.  Hastings. 
"  But,"  she  added,  with  a  sad  smile, 
"  when  your  children  shall  be  as  old 
as  mine,  Maria,  you  will  have  learnt 
how  impossible  it  is  to  a  mother  not 
to  grieve.  Have  you  forgotten  the 
old  saying  ?  '  When  our  children  are 
young,  they  tread  upon  our  toes  ;  but 
when  they  get  older  they  tread  upon 
our  hearts.'  " 

Little  Miss  Meta  was  treading  upon 
her  toes  then.  The  child's  tiny  shoes 
were  dancing  upon  grandmamma's  in 
her  eagerness  to  get  close  to  her,  to 
tell  her  that  Donatan  was  going  to 
give  her  a  great  big  handful  of  roses, 
as  soon  as  they  were  blown,  with  the 
thorns  cut  off. 

"  Come  to  me,  Meta,"  said  Maria. 
She  saw  that  her  mamma  was  not  in 
a  mood  to  be  troubled  with  children, 
and  she  drew  the  child  on  to  her  own 
knee.  "  Mamma,  I  am  going  for  a 
drive  presently,"  she  continued. 
"Would  it  not  do  you  good  to  go 
with  me  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  could  spare 
the  time  this  morning,"  said  Mrs. 
Hastings.     "Are  you  going  far  ?" 

"  I  can  go  far  or  near,  as  you  please," 
replied  Maria.  "We  have  a  new  car- 
riage, and  George  told  me  at  break- 
fast that  I  had  better  try  it,  and  see 
how  I  liked  it." 

"A    new    carriage!"   replied    Mrs. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


173 


Hastings,  her  accent  betraying  some 
surprise.  "Had  you  not  enough  car- 
riages, Maria?" 

"  In  truth  I  think  we  had,  mamma. 
This  new  one  is  one  that  George  took 
a  fancy  to,  when  he  was  in  London 
last,  week  ;  and  he  bought  it." 

"  Child, — though  of  course  it  is  no 
birsiness  of  mine, — you  surely  did  not 
want  it.  What  sort  of  a  carriage  is  it  ?" 

"It  is  a  large  one, — a  kind  of  ba- 
rouche. It  will  do  you  good  to  go 
out  with  me.  I  will  order  it  at  once 
if  you  will  go,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Hastings  did  not  immediately 
reply.  She  appeared  to  have  fallen 
into  thought.  Presently  she  raised 
her  head  and  looked  at  Maria. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  long  thought  of 
mentioning  to  you  a  certain  subject ; 
and  I  think  I  will  do  it  now.  Strictly 
speaking,  it  is,  as  I  say,  no  business 
of  mine,  but  I  cannot  help  being  anx- 
ious for  your  interests." 

Maria  felt  somewhat  alarmed.  It 
appeared  a  formidable  preamble. 

"  I  and  your  papa  sometimes  talk 
it  over,  one  with  another.  And  we 
say" — Mrs.  Hastings  smiled,  as  if  to 
disarm  her  Avords  of  their  serious  im- 
port— "that  we  wish  we  could  put  old 
heads  upon  young  shoulders, — upon 
yours  and  your  husband's." 

"  But  why? — in  what  way?"  cried 
Maria. 

"  My  dear,  if  you  and  he  had  old 
heads,  you  would,  I  think,  see  how 
very  wrong — I  speak  the  word  only  in 
your  interests,  Maria — it  is,  to  main- 
tain so  great  and  expensive  an  estab- 
lishment. It  must  cost  you  and  George, 
here,  far  more  than  it  costs  them  at 
Ashlydyat." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  does,"  said  Maria. 

"We  do  not  know  what  your  hus- 
band's income  is " 

"  I  do  not  know  it  either,"  spoke 
Maria,  for  Mrs.  Hastings  had  made  a 
pause  and  looked  at  her,  almost  as 
though  she  would  give  opportunity 
for  the  information  to  be  supplied. 
"  George  never  speaks  to  me  upon 
money  matters  or  business  affairs." 

"Well,  whatever  it  is,"  resumed 
Mrs  Hastings,  "we  should  judge  that 


he  must  be  living  up  to  every  farthing 
of  it.  How  much  better  it  would  be 
if  you  were  to  live  more  moderately, 
and  put  something  by  !" 

"  I  dare  say  it  would,"  acquiesced 
Maria.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  mam- 
ma, there  are  times  when  I  get  into  a 
thoughtful  mood,  and  feel  half  fright- 
ened at  our  expenditure.  But  then 
again  I  reflect  that  George  knows  his 
own  affairs  and  his  own  resources  far 
better  than  I  do.  The  expense  is  of 
his  instituting,  not  of  mine." 

"  George  is  proverbially  careless," 
significantly  spoke  Mrs.  Hastings. 

"  But,  mamma,  if,  at  the  end  of  one 
year,  he  found  his  expenses  heavier 
than  they  ought  to  be,  he  would  na- 
turally retrench  them  for  the  next. 
His  not  doing  it  proves  that  he  can 
afford  it," 

"  I  am  not  saying  or  thinking  that  he 
cannot  afford  it,  Maria,  in  one  sense  : 
I  do  not  suppose  he  outruns  his  in- 
come. But  you  might  live  at  half  the 
expense,  and  be  quite  as  comfortable, 
perhaps  more  so.  Servants,  carriages, 
horses,  dress,  dinner-parties  ! — I  know 
you  must  spend  enormously." 

"  Well,  so  we  do,"  replied  Maria, 
"  But,  mamma,  you  are  perhaps  un- 
aware that  George  has  an  equal  share 
with  Thomas.  He  has  indeed.  When 
Mr.  Crosse  retired,  Thomas,  in  his 
generosity,  told  George  it  should  be 
so  for  the  future." 

"  Did  he  !  There  are  not  many 
like  Thomas  Godolphin.  Still,  Maria, 
whatever  may  be  the  income,  I  main- 
tain my  argument,  that  you  keep  np 
unnecessary  style  and  extravagance. 
Remember,  my  dear,  that  }tou  had  no 
marriage-settlement,  —  and  the  more 
you  save  the  better  for  your  children. 
You  may  have  many  yet," 

"  I  think  I  will  talk  to  George 
about  it,"  mused  Maria. 

Of  course,  the  past  seven  years  had 
not  been  without  their  changes.  Mr. 
Crosse  had  retired  from  the  bank,  and 
Thomas  Godolphin,  in  his  generosity, 
immediately  constituted  his  brother 
an  equal  partner.  He  had  not  been 
so  previously.  Neither  had  it  been 
contemplated  by  Sir   George  in  his 


174 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


lifetime  that  it  was  so  to  be,  yet  a 
while  :  the  state  maintained  at  Ash- 
lydyat took  more  to  keep  it  up  than 
the  quiet  way  in  which  it  was  sup- 
posed George  would  live  at  the  bank, 
and  Thomas  was  the  representative 
Godolphin.  But  Thomas  Godolphin 
was  incapable  of  any  conduct  border- 
ing in  the  remotest  degree  upon  covet- 
ousness  or  meanness.  They  were  the 
sons  of  one  father;  and  though  there 
was  the  difference  in  their  ages,  and 
he  was  the  chief  of  the  Godolphins,  he 
made  George's  share  equal  to  his  own. 
It  was  well  perhaps  that  he  did  so. 
Otherwise  George  might  have  got  into 
shoals  and  quicksands.  He  appeared 
to  have  no  notion  of  living  quietly  : 
had  he  possessed  the  great  purse  of 
Fortunatus,  which  had  no  bottom,  we 
are  told,  and  was  always  full  of  gold, 
he  could  not  have  been  much  more 
careless  of  money.  Rumor  went,  too, 
that  all  Mr.  George's  wild  oats — 
bushels  of  which,  you  may  remember 
to  have  heard,  Prior's  Ash  gave  him 
credit  for — were  not  yet  sown ;  and 
wild  oats  run  away  with  an  awful 
deal  of  money.  Perhaps  the  only 
person  in  all  Prior's  Ash  who  be- 
lieved George  Godolphin  to  be  a  saint, 
or  next  door  to  one,  was  Maria.  Best 
that  she  should  think  so.  But,  ex- 
travagant as  George  was,  the  suspi- 
cion that  he  lived  beyond  his  income 
was  never  glanced  at.  Sober  people, 
such  as  the  Rector  of  All  Souls'  and 
Mrs.  Hastings,  would  say  in  private 
what  a  pity  it  was  that  George  did 
not  think  of  saving  for  his  family. 
Ample  as  the  income,  present  and 
future,  arising  from  the  bank  might 
be,  it  could  not  be  undesirable  to 
know  that  a  nest-egg  was  accumu- 
lating. Thomas  might  have  suggested 
this  to  George  :  gossips  surmised  that 
he  did  so,  and  that  George  let  the 
suggestion  go  for  nothing.  The}''  were 
wrong.  Whatever  lectures  Janet  may 
have  seen  fit  to  give  him,  Thomas 
gave  him  none.  Thomas  was  not  one 
to  interfere  or  play  the  mentor :  and 
Thomas  had  a  strong  silent  conviction 
within  him  that  ere  very  long  George 
would    come   into   Ashlydyat.      The 


conviction  was  born  of  his  inward 
feelings;  of  his  suspected  state  of 
health.  He  might  be  wrong ;  but 
he  believed  he  was  not.  Ashlydyat 
George's ;  the  double  income  from  the 
bank  George's, — where  was  the  need 
to  tell  him  now  to  save  V 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Hastings  had 
had  some  trouble  with  his  boys  :  in- 
somuch that  they  had  turned  their 
faces  against  the  career  he  had  marked 
out  for  them.  Isaac,  the  eldest,  des- 
tined for  the  church,  had  declined  to 
qualify  himself  for  it  when  he  came 
to  years  of  discretion.  After  some 
uncertainty,  and  what  Mr.  Hastings 
called  "  knocking  about,"  —  which 
meant  that  he  was  doing  nothing  when 
he  ought  to  have  been  at  work  ;  and 
that  state  of  affairs  lasted  for  a  year 
or  two, — Isaac  won  Maria  over  to  his 
side.  Maria,  in  her  turn,  won  over 
George  ;  and  Isaac  was  admitted  to 
the  bank.  He  held  a  good  post  in  it 
now :  the  brother  of  Mrs.  George  Go- 
dolphin was  not  left  to  rise  by  chance 
or  priority.  A  handsome  young  man 
of  three-and-twenty  was  he  ;  steady  ; 
and  displaying  an  aptitude  for  busi- 
ness beyond  his  years.  Many  a  one 
deemed  that  Isaac  Hastings,  in  a 
worldly  point  of  view,  had  done  well 
in  quitting  the  uncertain  prospects 
offered  by  the  church,  for  a  clerkship 
in  the  house  of  CJodolphin.  He  might 
rise  sometime  to  be  a  partner  in  it. 
Reginald  had  also  declined  the  career 
marked  out  for  him.  Some  govern- 
ment appointment  had  been  promised 
him, — in  fact,  had  been  given  him, — 
but  Reginald  would  hear  of  nothing 
but  the  sea.  It  angered  Mr.  Hastings 
much.  One  of  the  last  men  was  he 
to  force  a  boy  into  the  Church  ;  nay, 
to  allow  a  boy  to  enter  it  unless  he 
evinced  a  special  liking  for  it ;  there- 
fore Isaac  had,  on  that  score,  got  off 
pretty  free  :  but  he  was  not  one  of  the 
last  men  to  force  a  boy  to  work  who 
displayed  a  taste  for  idleness.  Regi- 
nald argued  that  he  should  lead  a  far 
more  idle  life  in  a  government  office 
than  he  should  have  a  chance  of  doing 
if  he  went  to  sea.  He  was  right  so 
far.    Mr,s.  Hastings  had  a  special  hor- 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T , 


175 


ror  of  the  sea.  Mothers,  as  a  general 
rule,  have.  She  set  her  face — and 
Mr.  Hastings  had  also  set  his — against 
Reginald's  sea-visions, — which,  truth 
to  say,  had  commenced  with  his  ear- 
liest years. 

However,  Reginald  and  inclination 
proved  too  strong  for  the  opposition. 
The  government  post  had  to  be  de- 
clined with  thanks ;  and  to  sea  he 
went.  Not  into  the  navy, — the  boy 
had  become  too  old  for  it:  but  into 
the  merchant  service, — a  good  service, 
the  house  he  entered,  but  a  very  ex- 
pensive one.  The  premium  was  high ; 
the  outfit  was  high  ;  the  yearly  sum 
that  went  in  expenses  while  he  was, 
what  is  called,  a  midshipman,  was 
high.  Mr.  Hastings  remonstrated  as 
to  the  latter.  Reginald  replied  that 
he  must  have  what  the  other  middies 
had,  and  do  as  they  did.  He  con- 
tinued also  to  get  through  a  tolerable 
account  of  petty  sums  on  his  private 
score,  which  Mr.  Hastings  had  to 
make  good.  Altogether  Reginald 
was  a  great  expense.  Harry  was 
keeping  his  first  term  at  College. 
He  had  chosen  the  Church  of  his  own 
free-will :  and  was  qualifying  for  it, 
Grace  was  married.  And  Rose  was 
growing  up  to  be  as  pretty  as  Maria. 

"  Maria,"  cried  Mrs.  Hastings,  "  if 
I  am  to  go  out  with  you  to-day,  why 
should  we  not  call  upon  Mrs.  Averil  ? 
I  have  been  wanting  to  see  her  for 
some  time." 

"I  will  call  with  pleasure,"  was 
Maria's  answer.  "  As  well  go  a  long 
drive  as  a  short  one.  Then  we  should 
start  at  once." 

She  rang  the  bell  as  she  spoke, — to 
order  the  carriage,  and  for  Margery 
to  come  and  take  Miss  Meta.  The 
latter,  who  had  played  the  trick  be- 
fore, suddenly  broke  from  Margery, 
and  dashed  into  the  bank-parlor.  She 
had  learned  to  open  the  door. 

George  by  good-luck  happened  to 
be  alone.  He  affected  great  anger, 
and  Margery  also  scolded  sharply. 
George  had  been  sitting  at  a  table, 
bending  over  account-books,  his  spirit 
weary,  his  brow  knit.  His  assumed 
anger  did  not  tell :   for  he  caught  up 


the  child  the  next  moment  and  covered 
her  face  with  kisses.  Then  he  carried 
her  into  the  dining-room  to  Maria. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  with  this  naughty 
child,  mamma?  She  came  bursting 
in  upon  me  like  a  great  fierce  lion.  I 
must  buy  a  real  lion  and  keep  him  in 
the  closet,  and  let  him  loose  if  she 
does  it  again.  Meta  won't  like  to  be 
eaten  up." 

Meta  laughed  confidently.  "Papa 
won't  let  a  lion  touch  Meta." 

"You  saucy  child!"  But  George's 
punishment  consisted  only  of  more 
kisses. 

"We  are  going  to  call  on  Mrs.  Averil, 
George,"  said  Maria.  "  Can  you  ac- 
company us  ?  It  is  a  long  while  since 
you  were  there,  and  you  know  how 
pleased  she  would  be  to  see  you." 

"I  can't,"  replied  George.  "  Thomas 
has  not  come  this  morning." 

His  wife  looked  at  him  wistfully, 
— a  look  which  seemed  to  say  she 
thought  he  might  come  if  he  would. 
George  answered  it, 

"It's  quite  impossible,  Maria. 
Thomas  has  not  been  with  us  so 
much  of  late.  I  suppose  he  thinks 
that  I,  being  the  youngest,  should 
take  the  manager's  share  of  work.  Is 
Meta  going  ?" 

Maria  had  not  intended  that  she 
should  go.  She  glanced  towards  the 
child  with  indecision.  Margery,  who 
was  in  the  habit  of  saying  pretty  much 
what  she  choose,  put  in  her  word. 

"If  you  go  without  the  child,  ma'am, 
Mrs.  Averil  will  not  thank  you.  Don't 
youremember,  last  time,  telling  me  that 
she  cried  over  it,  because  Miss  Meta 
was  not  taken  ?  I  think  the  wishes 
of  the  sick  should  be  studied  a  bit." 

"  If  I  take  Meta  I  must  take  you 
also,  Margery;  for  I  cannot  have 
the  trouble  of  her  in  the  carriage." 

"I  shan't  hinder,"  was  Margery's 
l'esponse.  "  My  bonnet  and  shawl's 
soon  clapped  on.  Come  along,  child. 
1*11  dress  you  at  once  " 

She  went  off  with  Meta,  waiting  for 
no  further  permission.  George  stepped 
out  on  the  terrace,  to  see  what  Jona- 
than and  David  were  about.  Maria 
took  the   opportunity  to  tell  him  of 


176 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


the  sixty  pounds  which  had  come  to 
old  Jekyl,  and  that  she  had  advised 
its  being  brought  to  the  bank  to  be 
taken  care  of. 

"  AVhat  money  is  it  ?  Where  does 
it  come  from?"  inquired  George,  of 
the  men. 

"  It's  the  money,  sir,  as  were  left  to 
father  this  three  year  ago,  from  that 
rich  uncle  of  ourn,"  returned  Jonathan. 
"  But  the  lawyers,  sir,  they  couldn't 
agree,  and  it  was  never  paid  over. 
Now  there  have  been  a  trial  over  it, 
something  about  the  will ;  and  father 
have  had  notice  that  it's  ready  for  him, 
— all  the  sixty  pound." 

"We  will  take  care  of  it  for  him, 
and  pay  him  interest  if  he  chooses  to 
leave  it  here,"  said  George. 

"I'll  tell  him  safe  enough,  sir.  He's 
sure  to  bring  it." 

The  carriage  was  at  the  door  in  due 
course,  and  they  were  ready  for  it, — a 
handsome  carriage,  acknowledged  to 
be  so  by  even  Mrs.  Hastings.  George 
name  out  to  hand  them  in.  Miss  Meta, 
like  a  pretty  little. dressed-up  fairy; 
Margery,  plain  and  old-fashioned ; 
Mrs.  Hastings,  quiet  and  ladylike ; 
Maria,  beautiful.  Her  hand  lingered 
in  her  husband's. 

"  I  wish  you  were  coming,  George," 
she  bent  from  the  carriage  to  whisper. 

"It  must  wait  for  another  time,  my 
dearest." 

Although  nearly  seven  years  a  wife, 
the  world  still  contained  no  idol  for 
Maria  like  George  Godolphin.  She 
loved,  respected,  reverenced  him. 
Nothing,  as  yet,  had  shaken  her  faith 
in  her  husband.  The  little  tales, 
making  free  with  Mr.  George's  name, 
which  would  now  and  then  be  flying 
about  Prior's  Ash,  never  reached  the 
ears  of  Maria. 

They  had  a  seven-mile  drive.  The 
Honorable  Mrs.  Averil,  who  was  grow- 
ing in  years,  and  had  become  an  in- 
valid, was  delighted  to  see  them.  She 
kept  them  for  two  or  three  hours,  and 
wanted  to  keep  them  for  the  day.  It 
was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  they 
returned  to  Prior's  Ash. 

They  met  a  cavalcade  on  entering 
the  town, — a  riding-party,  consisting 


of  several  ladies  and  one  or  two  gen- 
tlemen, followed  by  some  groom* 
Somewhat  apart  from  the  rest,  mid- 
way between  the  party  and  the  grooms, 
rode  two  abreast,  laughing,  animated, 
upon  the  best  of  terms  with  each  other. 
The  lady  sat  her  horse  unusually  well. 
She  was  slightly  larger,  but  not  a  whit 
less  handsome,  than  on  the  day  you 
first  saw  her,  at  the  meet  of  the  hounds, 
— Charlotte  Pain.  He,  gay  George, — 
for  it  was  no  other, — was  riding  care- 
lessly, half  turning  on  his  horse,  his  fair 
curls  bending  towards  Charlotte. 

"  Papa  !  papa  !"  shrieked  out  Meta, 
joyously. 

George  turned  hastily,  but  the  car- 
riage had  then  passed.  So  occupied 
had  he  been,  making  himself  agree- 
able, that  he  had  positively  not  seen 
it.  Charlotte  had.  Charlotte  had 
bowed, — bowed  to  Maria  with  a  look 
of  cool  assurance,  of  triumph — as 
much  as  to  say,  You  are  sitting  alone, 
and  your  husband  is  with  me :  at 
least,  it  might  have  worn  that  appear- 
ance to  one  given  to  flights  of  fancy, 
which  Maria  was  not,  and  she  re- 
turned the  bow  with  a  pleasant  smile. 
She  caught  George's  eye  when  he 
turned,  and  a  flush  of  pleasure  lighted 
her  face.  George  nodded  to  her  cor- 
dially, and  raised  his  hat,  sending 
back  a  smile  at  the  idea  of  his  not 
having  seen  her. 

"  It  was  papa,  was  it  not,  darling  ?" 
said  Maria,  gleefully,  bending  over  to 
her  little  girl. 

But  Maria  did  not  notice  that  Mar- 
gery's head  had  given  itself  a  peculiar 
toss  at  sight  of  George's  companion  ; 
or  that  a  severe  expression  had  crossed 
the  face  of  Mrs.  Hastings, — an  ex- 
pression which  she  instantly  smoothed, 
lest  Maria  should  see  it. 

The  fact  was,  that  gossiping  Prior's 
Ash  had  for  some  time  coupled  to- 
gether the  names  of  George  Godolphin 
and  Charlotte  Pain,  in  its  usual  free 
manner.  No  need,  one  would  think, 
for  Mrs.  Hastings  or  Margery  to  pay 
heed  to  such  tattle  :  for  they  knew  well 
what  half  the  stories  of  Prior's  Ash 
were  worth. 


T  II  E      S  II  A  D  0  W      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


177 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

WHY   DID    IT   ANGER   HIM? 

The  drawing-rooms  at  Lady  Godol- 
phin's  Folly  wore  teeming  with  light, 
with  noise,  with  company.  The  Ver- 
ralls  lived  in  it  yet.  Lady  Godolphin 
had  never  given  them  their  dismissal : 
but  they  did  not  spend  so  much  time 
in  it  as  formerly.  London,  or  else- 
where, appeared  to  claim  them  for 
the  greater  portion  of  the  year.  One 
year  they  did  not  come  to  it  at  all. 
Sometimes  only  Mrs.  Yerrall  would  be 
sojourning  at  it, — her  husband  away. 
Indeed,  their  residence  there  was  most 
irregular.  Mrs.Verrall  was  away  at 
present, — it  was  said  at  the  sea-side. 

A  dinner-party  had  taken  place  that 
day, — a  gentleman's  party.  It  was 
not  often  that  Mr.Verrall  gave  one  : 
but  when  he  did,  it  was  thoroughly 
well  done.  George  Godolphin  did 
not  give  better  dinners  than  did  Mr. 
Yerrall.  The  only  promised  guest 
who  had  failed  in  his  attendance  was 
Thomas  Godolphin.  Very  rarely  in- 
deed did  he  accept  of  the  invitations  to 
the  Folly.  If  there  was  one  man  in  all 
the  county  to  whom  Mr.Verrall  seemed 
inclined  to  pay  court,  to  treat  with 
marked  consideration  and  respect,  that 
man  was  Thomas  Godolphin.  Thomas 
nearly  always  declined,  declined  court- 
eously, in  a  manner  which  could  not 
afford  the  slightest  loophole  for  offence. 
He  was  of  quiet  habits,  not  strong  in 
health  of  late,  and  though  he  had  to 
give  dinner-parties  himself  and  at- 
tend some  of  George's  in  the  way  of 
business,  his  friends  nearly  all  were 
kind  enough  to  excuse  his  frequenting 
theirs  in  return. 

This  time,  however,  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin had  yielded  to  Mr.Verrall's 
pressing  entreaties,  made  in  person, 
and  promised  to  be  present, — a  prom- 
ise which  was  not — as  it  proved — to 
be  kept.  All  the  rest  of  the  guests 
had  assembled,  and  they  were  only 
waiting  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Godol- 
phin to  sit  down,  when  a  hasty  note 
arrived  from  Janet.  Mr.  Godolphin 
had  been  taken  ill  in  dressing,  and 
11 


was    entirely  unable    to    attend.     So 
they  dined  without  him. 

The  dinner  was  over  now.  And 
the  guests,  most  o<"  them,  had  gone  to 
the  drawing-rooms, — teeming,  I  say, 
then,  with  light,  with  the  hum  of 
many  voices,  with  heat.  A  few  had 
gone  home ;  a  few  had  taken  cigars 
and  were  strolling  outside  the  dining- 
room  windows  in  the  bright  moonlight : 
some  were  taking  coffee;  and  some 
were  flirting  with  Charlotte  Pain. 

Mrs.  Pain  now,  you  remember.  But 
Charlotte  has  worn  weeds  for  her  hus- 
band since  you  last  saw  her,  and  is  free 
again.  About  four  years  after  their 
marriage,  the  death  of  Rodolf  Pain 
appeared  in  the  county  papers.  None 
of  the  Verralls  were  at  the  Folly  at  the 
time  ;  but  Charlotte,  in  her  widow's 
dress,  came  to  it  almost  immediately 
afterwards,  to  sob  out  her  sorrow  in 
retirement.  Charlotte  emerged  from 
her  widowhood  gayer  than  ever.  She 
rode  more  horses,  she  kept  more  dogs, 
she  astonished  Prior's  Ash  with  her 
extraordinary  mode  of  attire,  she  was 
altogether  "faster"  than  ever.  Char- 
lotte had  never  once  visited  the  neigh- 
borhood during  her  married  life  ;  but 
she  appeared  to  be  inclined  to  make 
up  for  it  now,  for  she  chiefly  stayed  at 
it.  When  the  Vei'ralls,  one  or  both, 
would  be  away,  Charlotte  remained 
at  the  Folly,  its  mistress.  She  held 
her  court ;  she  gave  entertainments  ; 
she  visited  on  her  own  score.  Humor 
went  that  Mrs.  Pain  had  been  left 
very  well  off :  that  she  shared  with 
Mr.Verrall  the  expense  of  the  Folly. 

Charlotte  managed  to  steer  tolerably 
clear  of  ill-natured  tongues.  Latterly, 
indeed,  people  had  got  to  say  that 
Mr.  George  Godolphin  was  at  the 
Folly  more  than  he  need  be.  But,  it 
was  certain  tliftt  George  and  Mr.Ver- 
rall were  upon  most  intimate  terms: 
and  Mr.Verrall  had  been  staying  at 
the  Folly  a  good  deal  of  late.  George 
of  course  would  have  said  that  his 
visits  there  were  paid  to  Mr.Verrall. 
Charlotte  was  popular  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, rather  than  otherwise;  with 
the  ladies  as  well  as  with  the  gentle- 
men. 


178 


THE      SHADOW       OF      ASHLYDYAT 


Resplendent  is  Charlotte  to-night 
in  a  white-silk  dress  with  silver  spots 
upon  it.  It  is  a  really  beautiful  dress  ; 
but,  one  of  a  quieter  kind  would  have 
been  more  suitable  for  this  occasion. 
Charlotte  had  not,  of  course,  appeared 
at  the  dinner,  and  there  wras  not  the 
least  necessity  for  her  to  embellish 
herself  in  this  manner  to  receive  them 
in  the  drawing-room.  Charlotte  was 
one,  however,  who  did  as  she  pleased 
in  the  matter  of  dress,  as  in  other 
things, — setting  custom  and  opinion  at 
defiance.  Her  hair  is  taken  from  her 
face  and  wound  round  and  round 
her  head  artistically,  in  conjunction 
with  a  white  and  silver  wreath.  White 
and  silver  ornaments  are  on  her  neck 
and  arms,  and  a  choice  bouquet  of 
white  hot-house  flowers  serves  her  to 
toy  with.  Just  now,  however,  the 
bouquet  is  discarded,  and  lies  on  the 
table  near  her  elbow,  for  her  elbow  is 
resting  there  as  she  sits.  She  is  co- 
quetting with  a  white  and  silver  fan, 
gently  wafting  it  before  her  face,  her 
sparkling  eyes  glancing  over  its  rim 
at  a  gentleman,  who  stands,  coffee-cup 
in  hand,  bending  down  to  her. 

It  is  not  George  Godolphin.  So  do 
not  let  your  imagination  run  off  to  him. 
For  all  the  world  saw  George  and 
Charlotte  were  as  decorous  of  behavior 
with  each  other  as  need  be :  and  where 
Prior's  Ash  was  picking  up  its  ill-na- 
tured scandal  from,  Prior's  Ash  best 
knew.  Others  talked  and  laughed 
with  Charlotte  as  much  as  George 
did  ;  rode  with  her,  admired  her. 

The  gentleman,  bending  down  to 
her  now,  appears  to  admire  her, — a 
tall,  handsome  man  of  eight- and-thirty 
years,  with  clearly  cut  features,  and 
dark  luminous  eyes.  He  is  the  nephew 
of  that  Mrs.  Averil  to  whom  Maria 
and  Mrs.  Hastings  went  to  pay  a  visit. 
He  has  been  away  from  the  neighbor- 
hood, until  recently,  for  nearly  three 
years;  and  this  is  the  first  time  he 
has  seen  Charlotte  at  Prior's  Ash 
since  she  was  Miss  Pain. 

What  does  Charlotte  promise  to 
herself  by  thus  flirting  with  him — by 
laying  her  charms  out  to  attract  him  ? 
— as  she  is  evidently  doing.     Is  she 


thinking  to  make  a  second  marriage  ? 
to  win'  him,  as  she  once  thought  to 
win  George  Godolphin  ?  Scarcely. 
One  gentleman  in  the  vicinity,  who 
had  thrown  himself  and  his  fortune  at 
Charlotte's  feet — and,  neither  fortune 
nor  gentleman  could  be  reckoned  des- 
picable— had  been  rejected  with  an 
assurance  that  she  should  never  marry 
again ;  and  she  spoke  it  with  an 
earnestness  that  left  no  doubt  of  her 
sincerity.  Charlotte  liked  her  own 
liberty  too  well.  She  was  no  doubt 
perfectly  aware  that  every  husband 
would  not  feel  inclined  to  accord  it  to 
her  so  entirely  as  had  poor  Rodolf 
Pain.  He — the  one  with  the  coffee- 
cup,  talking  to  her — is  plunging  into 
a  sea  of  blunders, — as  you  may  hear 
speedily,  if  you  listen  to  what  he  is 
saying. 

"Yes,  I  have  come  back  to  find 
many  things  changed,"  he  was  ob- 
serving ;  "  things  and  people.  Time, 
though  but  in  a  three-years'  flight, 
leaves  its  mark  behind  it,  Mrs.  Pain. 
If  you  will  allow  me  to  remark  it,  I 
would  say  that  you  are  nearly  the 
only  one  whom  it  has  not  changed — 
save  for  the  better." 

"  Your  lordship  has  not  forgotten 
your  talent  for  flattery,  I  perceive," 
was  Charlotte's  rejoinder. 

"Nay,  but  I  speak  with  no  flattery ; 
I  mean  what  I  say,"  was  the  peer's 
reply,  given  in  an  earnest  spirit.  lie 
was  an  admirer  of  beauty;  he  admired 
Charlotte's  ;  but  to  flatter  was  one  of 
the  failings  of  Lord  Averil.  Neither- 
had  he  any  ulterior  view,  save  that  of 
passing  ten  minutes  of  the  evening 
agreeably  with  Charlotte's  help,  ere 
he  took  his  departure.  If  Charlotte 
thought  he  had,  she  was  mistaken. 
Lord  Averil's  affections  and  hopes 
were  given  to  one  very  different  from 
Charlotte  Pain. 

"  But  it  must  be  considerably  more 
than  three  years  since  1  saw  you," 
resumed  Lord  Averil.  "  It  must  be 
— I  should  think — nearer  seven.  You 
did  not  return  to  Prior's  Ash — if  I  re- 
member rightly — after  you  left  it  on 
your  marriage." 

"  I  did   not   return  to   it,"  replied 


N 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T , 


179 


Charlotte:  ''but  you  have  seen  me 
since  then,  Lord  Averil.  Ah  !  your 
memory  is  treacherous.  Don't  you 
recollect  accosting  me  in  Rotten  How  ? 
It  was  soon  after  you  lost  your  wife." 

Did  Charlotte  intend  that  as  a  shaft  ? 
Lord  Averil's  cheek  burnt  as  he  en- 
deavored to  recall  the  reminiscence. 
"I  think  I  remember  it,"  he  slowly 
said.  "  It  was  the  spring  following 
your  marriage.  Yes,  I  do  remember 
it,"  he  added  after  a  pause.  "  You 
were  riding  with  a  young,  fair  man. 
And — did  you  not — really  I  beg  your 
pardon  if  I  am  wrong — did  }rou  not 
introduce  him  to  me  as  Mr.  Pain  ?" 

"It was  Mr. Pain," replied  Charlotte. 

"  I  hope  he  is  well.  He  is  not  here 
probablv  ?  I  did  not  see  him  at  table, 
I  think." 

Charlotte's  face — I  mean  its  com- 
plexion— was  got  up  in  the  fashion. 
But  the  crimson  color  that  suffused  it 
would  have  penetrated  all  the  powder 
and  cosmetics  extant,  let  them  have 
been  laid  on  ever  so  profusely.  She 
was  really  agitated  :  could  not  for  the 
time  speak.  Another  moment,  and 
she  turned  deadly  pale.  Let  us  ad- 
mire her,  at  any  rate,  for  this  feeling 
shown  to  her  departed  husband. 

"My  husband  is  dead,  Lord  Averil." 

Lord  Averil  felt  shocked  at  his 
blunder.  "  You  must  forgive  me, 
Mrs.  Pain,"  he  said,  in  a  gentle  voice, 
his  tone,  his  manner  evincing  the 
deepest  sympathy.  "  I  had  no  idea 
of  it.  No  one  has  mentioned  it  to 
rue  since  my  return.  The  loss,  I  in- 
fer, cannot  be  a  very  recent  one." 

In  point  of  fact,  Mr.  Pain's  demise 
had  occurred  immediately  after  the  de- 
parture of  Lord  Averil  from  England. 
Charlotte  is  telling  him  so.  It  could 
not,  she  thinks,  have  been  more  than 
a  week  or  two  subsequent  to  it. 

"  Then  -he  could  not  have  been  ill 
long,'1  remarked  his  lordship.  "What 
was  tlit;  cause " 

"  Oh,  pray  do  not  make  me  recall  it !" 
interrupted  Charlotte,  in  a  tone  of  pain. 
"He  died  suddenly:  but — it  was  alto- 
gether very  distressing.  Distressing 
to  me,  and  distressing  in  its  attendant 
circumstances." 


An  idea  flashed  over  the  mind  of 
Lord  Averil  that  the  circumstances  of 
the  death  must  have  been  peculiar:  in 
short,  that  Mr.  Pain  might  have  com- 
mitted suicide.  If  he  was  wrong, 
Charlotte's  manner  was  to  blame.  It 
was  from  that  he  gathered  the  thought 
That  the  subject  was  a  most  unwel- 
come one,  there  could  be  no  doubt : 
she  palpably  shrank  from  it. 

Murmuring  again  a  few  clear  words 
of  considerate  apology,  Lord  Averil 
changed  the  conversation,  and  pres- 
ently said  adieu  to  Charlotte. 

"  You  surely  are  not  thinking  of  go- 
ing yet  ?"  cried  Charlotte,  retaining  his 
hand,  and  recovering  all  her  light- 
headedness. "  They  are  setting  out 
the  whist-tables." 

"  I  do  not  play.  I  have  a  visit  to 
pay  yet  to  a  sick  friend,"  he  added, 
glancing  at  his  watch.  "I shall  be  in 
time." 

"  But  I  do  not  think  your  carriage 
is  here,"  urged  Charlotte,  who  would 
fain  have  detained  him. 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  not  here,"  was  the 
peer's  answer.  "  I  did  not  order  it 
to  come.  It  is  a  fine  night,  and  I 
shall  walk  to  Prior's  Ash." 

He  looked  round  for  Mr.  Yerrall.  He 
could  not  see  him.  In  at  one  room, 
in  at  another,  looked  he  ;  out  upon  the 
terrace,  away  before  the  dining-room 
window  amidst  the  smokers.  But 
there  was  no  Mr.  Yerrall :  and  Lord 
Averil,  impatient  to  be  gone,  finally 
departed  without  wishing  his  host 
good  -  night. 

Mr.  Yerrall  had  strolled  out  into  the 
moonlight,  and  was  in  low,  earnest 
conversation  with  George  Godolphin. 
They  had  got  as  far  as  that  stream  on 
which  you  saw  George  rowing  the 
day  of  Mrs.Yerrall's  fete,  when  he  so 
nearly  caught  his  death.  Standing  on 
the  arched  wooden  bridge,  which 
crossed  it  to  the  mock  island,  they 
leaned  forward,  their  arms  on  its  rails. 
Mr. Yerrall  was  smoking:  George  Go- 
dolphin  appeared  to  be  too  ill  at  ease 
to  smoke.  His  brow  was  knit ;  his 
face  hot  with  care.  As  fast  as  he 
wiped  the  drops  from  his  brow  they 
gathered  there  asrain. 


130 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


"Don't  worry,  lad," said  Mr. Yerrall. 
"  It  always  has  come  right,  and  it  will 
come  right  now.  Never  fear.  You 
will  receive  news  from  London  to- 
morrow; there's  little  doubt  of  it." 

"  But  it  ought  to  have  come  to-day, 
Yerrall." 

"  It  will  come  to-morrow  safe  enough. 
And — you  know  that  you  may  always 
count  upon  me." 

"I  know  I  may.  But  look  at  the 
awful  coat, Yerrall." 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !  What  has  put  you 
iu  this  mood  to-night?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  George,  wring- 
ing the  damp  from  his  brow.  "  The 
not  hearing  fruni  town,  I  think.  Yer- 
rall ?" 

"What?" 

"  Suppose,  when  I  do,  hear,  it 
should  not  be.  favorable  ?  I  feel  in  a 
fever  when  I  think  of  it." 

"  You  took  too  much  of  that  heat- 
ing port  this  evening,"  said  Mr.  Yer- 
rall. 

"  I  dare  say  I  did,"  returned  George. 
"A  man  at  ease  may  let  the  wine  pass 
him  :  but  one,  worried  to  death,  is 
glad  of  it  to  drown  care." 

"  Worried  to  death  !"  repeated  Mr. 
Yerrall,  in  a  reproving  tone. 

"  It's  next  door  to  it.  Look  there  ! 
they  have  tracked  us  and  are  coming 
in  .search." 

Two  or  three  dark  forms  were  dis- 
cerned in  the  distance,  nearer  the 
Polly.  Mr.  Yerrall  passed  his  arm 
within  George  Godolphin's  and  led 
him  towards  the  house. 

"I  think  I'll  go  home,"  said  George. 
"  I  am  not  company  for  a  dog  to- 
night," 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Yerrall.  "  The 
tables  are  ready.  I  want  to  give  you 
your  revenge." 

For  once  in  his  life — and  it  was  a 
notable  exception — George  Godolphin 
actually  resisted  the  temptation  of  the 
"tables:"  of  the  chance  of  "revenge." 
He  had  a  heavy  trouble  upon  him  ;  a 
great  fear;  perhaps  more  than  Mr. 
Yerrall  knew  of.  Ay,  he  had  !  But 
who  would  have  suspected  it  of  gay, 
careless  George,  who  had  been  so 
brilliant    at    the    dinner-table  ?     He 


foreswore  for  that  one  night  the  at- 
tractions of  the  Folly,  including  syren 
Charlotte,  and  went  straight  home. 

It  was  not  much  past  ten  when  he 
reached  the  bank.  Maria  was  aston- 
ished :  "the  Yerrall  dinner-parties  were 
generally  late  affairs.  She  was  sitting 
alone,  reading.  In  her  glad  surprise 
she  ran  to  him  with  an  exclamation 
of  welcome. 

George  pressed  her  tenderly  to  him, 
and  his  manner  was  gay  and  careless 
again.  Whatever  scandal  Prior's  Ash 
might  choose  to  talk  of  George,  he  had 
not  yet  begun  to  neglect  his  wife. 

"  It  was  rather  humdrum,  darling, 
and  I  got  tired,"  he  said  in  answer  to 
her  questions.  "  What  have  you  been 
doing  with  yourself?  Have  you  been 
alone  all  the  evening  ?" 

"  Since  mamma  left.  She  went 
home  after  tea.  George,  I  want  to 
tell  you  something  mamma  has  been 
talking  of, — has  been  suggesting." 

George  stretched  himself  on  the 
sofa,  as  if  he  were  weary.  Maria 
edged  herself  on  to  it,  and  sat  facing 
him,  holding  his  hand  while  she 
talked. 

"It  was  the  new  carriage  that 
brought  the  subject  up,  George.  Mam- 
ma introduced  it  this  morning.  She 
says  we  are  living  at  too  great  an  ex- 
pense ;  that  we  ought  not  to  spend 
more  than  half  what  we  do ■" 

"  What  ?"  shouted  George,  starting 
up  from  the  sofa  as  if  he  had  been 
electrified. 

Maria  felt  electrified, — electrified  by 
the  sudden  movement,  the  word,  the 
tone  of  anger.  Nay,  it  was  not  anger 
alone  that  it  bore,  but  dismay;  fear — 
she  could  hardly  tell  its  sound. 
"George,"  she  gasped,  "what  is  the 
matter  ?" 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is  that  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings has  been  saying." 

"George,  I  think  you  must  have 
mistaken  my  words,"  was  all  that 
Maria  could  reply  in  the  first  moment, 
feeling  truly  uncomfortable.  "  Mam- 
ma said  this  morning  that  it  was  a 
pity  that  we  did  not  live  at  less  ex- 
pense, and  save  money;  that  it  would 
be  desirable  for  the  sake  of  Meta  and 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


LSI 


any  other  children  we  may  have.  I 
said  I  thought  it  would  be  desirable, 
and  that  1  would  suggest  it  to  you. 
That  was  all." 

George  gazed  at  Maria  searchingly 
for  the  space  of  a  minute  or  two. 
"lias  Prior's  Ash  been  saying  this?" 

"Oh  no." 

"  Good.  Tell  Mrs.  Hastings,  Maria, 
that  we  are  capable  of  regulating  our 
own  affairs  without  interference.  I 
do  not  desire  it,  nor  will  I  admit  it," 

Maria  sat  down  to  the  table  with 
her  book, — the  one  she  had  been  read- 
ing when  George  came  in.  She  put 
her  hands  up,  as  if  absorbed  in  read- 
ing, but  her  tears  were  dropping. 
She  had  never  had  an  ill  word  with 
her  husband ;  had  never  had  any 
symptom  of  estrangement  with  him  ; 
and  she  could  not  bear  this.  George 
lay  on  the  sofa,  his  lips  compressed. 
Maria  rose  up,  in  her  loving,  affec- 
tionate nature,  and  stood  before  him. 

"  George,  I  am  sure  mamma  never 
meant  to  interfere  :  she  would  not  do 
such  a  thing.  What  she  said  arose 
from  anxiety  for  our  interests.  I  am 
so  sorry  to  have  offended  you,"  she 
added,  the  tears  falling  fast. 

A  repentant  fit  had  come  over  him. 
He  drew  his  wife's  face  down  on  his 
own  and  kissed  its  tears  away.  "  For- 
give me,  my  dearest;  I  was  wrong  to 
speak  crossly  to  you.  A  splitting 
headache  has  put  me  out  of  sorts,  and 
I  was  vexed  to  hear  that  people  were 
commenting  on  our  private  affairs. 
Nothing  could  annoy  me  half  so  much." 
Maria  wondered  why.  But  she  fully 
resolved  that  it  should  be  the  last  time 
she  would  hint  at  such  a  thing  as 
economy.  Of  course  her  husband 
knew  his  own  business  best 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

CECIL'S   ROMANCE. 

We  must  turn  to  Ashlydyat,  and 
go  back  to  a  little  earlier  in  the  even- 
ing.    Miss  Godolphin's  note  to  the 


Folly  had  stated  that  her  brother  bad 
been  taken  ill  while  dressing  for  Mr. 
Verrall's  dinner.  It  was  correct. 
Thomas  Godolphin  was  alone  in  his 
room,  ready,  all  but  his  coat,  when  lie 
was  attacked  by  a  sharp,  internal  pain 
of  agony.  He  hastily  sat  down , — a  cry 
escaping  his  lips,  and  drops  of  water 
gathering  on  his  brow. 

Alone  he  bore  it,  calling  for  no  aid. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  paroxysm  had 
partially  passed,  and  he  rang  for  his 
servant, — an  old  man  now,  that  ser- 
vant :  he  had  for  years  attended  on 
Sir  George  Godolphin. 

"  Bexley,  I  have  been  ill  again." 
said  Thomas,  quietly.  "  "Will  you  ask 
Miss  Godolphin  to  write  a  line  to  Mr. 
Verrall,  saying  that  I  am  unable  to 
attend  ?" 

Bexley  cast  a  strangely  yearning 
look  on  the  pale,  suffering  face  of  his 
master.  He  had  seen  him  in  these 
paroxysms  of  pain  once  or  twice.  "  I 
wish  you  would  have  Mr.  Snow  called 
in,  sir  !"  he  cried. 

"  I  think  1  shall.  He  may  give  me 
some  ease,  possibly.  Take  my  mes- 
sage to  your  mistress,  Bexley." 

The  effect  of  the  messsge  was  to 
bring  Janet  to  the  room.  "  Taken 
ill !  a  sharp  inward  pain  !"  she  was 
repeating,  after  Bexley.  "  Thomas, 
what  sort  of  a  pain  is  it  ?  It  seems  to 
me  that  you  have  had  the  same  be- 
fore, lately."    . 

"  Write  a  few  words  the  first  thing, 
will  you,  Janet,  I  should  not  like  to 
keep  them  waiting  for  me." 

Janet,  punctilious  as  Thomas,  con- 
siderate as  he  was  for  the  convenience 
of  others,  sat  down  and  wrote  the^note, 
despatching  it  at  once  by  Andrew, 
one  of  the  serving-men.  Few  might 
have  set  about  and  done  it  so  calmly 
as  Janet,  considering  that  she  had  a 
great  fear  thumping  at  her  heart, — a 
fear  which  had  never  penetrated  it 
until  this  moment.  With  something 
very  like  sickness,  had  flashed  into 
her  memory  their  mother's  pain.  A 
sharp,  agonizing  pain  had  occasionally 
attacked  her,  the  symptom  of  the  in- 
ward malady  of  which  she  had  died. 
Was  the  same  fatal  rnaladv  attacking 


182 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


Thomas  ?  The  doctors  had  expressed 
their  fears  then  that  it  might  prove 
hereditary. 

In  the  corridor,  as  Janet  was  going 
back  to  Thomas's  room,  the  note  writ- 
ten, she  encountered  Bexley.  The  sad 
apprehensive  look  in  the  old  man's 
face  struck  her.  She  touched  his  arm, 
and  beckoned  him  into  an  empty 
room. 

"  What  is  it  that  is  the  matter  with 
your  master  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  the  answer  : 
but  the  words  were  spoken  in  a  tone 
which  caused  Janet  to  think  that  the 
old  man  was  awake  to  the  same  fears 
that  she  was.  "Miss  Janet,  I  am 
afraid  to  think  what  it  may  be." 

"  Is  he  often  ill  like  this  ?" 

"  I  know  but  of  a  time  or  two, 
ma'am.  But  that's  a  time  or  two  too 
many." 

Janet  returned  to  the  room.  Thomas 
was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  his  face 
ghastly,  his  hands  fallen,  prostrate  al- 
together with  the  effects  of  the  pain. 
If  a  momentary  thought  had  crossed 
Janet  that  he  might  have  written  the 
note  himself,  it  left  her  now.  Things 
were  coming  into  her  mind  one  by  one  : 
how  much  time  Thomas  had  spent  in 
his  own  room  of  late  ;  how  seldom, 
comparatively  speaking,  he  went  to  the 
bank  ;  how  often  he  had  the  brougham, 
instead  of  walking,  when  he  did  go  to  it. 
Once — why  it  was  only  this  very  last 
Sunday  ! — he  had  not  gone  near  church 
all  day  long.  Janet's  fears  grew  into 
certainties. 

She  took  a  chair,  drawing  it  near  to 
Thomas.  Not  speaking  of  her  fears, 
but  asking  him  in  an  agreeable  tone 
bow  he  felt,  and  what  had  caused  his 
illness.  "Have  }rou  had  the  same 
pain  before  ?"  she  continued. 

"  Several  times,"  he  answered. 
"  But  it  has  been  worse  to-night  than 
I  had  previously  felt  it.  Janet,  I 
fear  it  may  be  the  forerunner  of  my 
call.  I  did  not  think  to  leave  you  so 
soon." 

Except  that  Janet's  face  went  nearly 
as  pale  as  his,  and  that  her  lingers  en- 
twined themselves  together  so  tightly 
as  to  cause  pain,  there  was  no  outward 


sign  of  the  grief  that  laid  hold  of  her 
heart. 

"  Thomas,  what  is  the  complaint 
that  you  are  fearing  ?"  she  asked,  after 
a  pause.     "  The  same  that — that — " 

"  That  my  mother  had,"  he  quietly 
answered,  speaking  the  words  that 
Janet  would  not  speak. 

"  It  may  not  be  so,"  gasped  Janet. 

"True.     But  I  think  it  is." 

"  Why  have  you  never  spoken  of 
this  ?" 

"  Because,  until  to-night,  I  have 
doubted  whether  it  was  so,  or  not. 
The  suspicion,  that  it  might  be  so, 
certainly  was  upon  me :  but  it  amount- 
ed to  no  more  than  a  suspicion.  At 
times,  when  I  feel  quite  well,  I  argue 
that  I  must  be  wrong." 

"  Have  you  consulted  Mr.  Snow  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  do  so  now.  I  have 
desired  Bexley  to  send  for  him." 

"  It  should  have  been  done  before, 
Thomas." 

"  Why  ?  If  it  is  as  I  suspect,  neither 
Snow  nor  all  his  brethren  can  save 
me." 

Janet  clasped  her  hands  upon  her 
knee,  and  sat  with  her  head  bent. 
She  was  feeling  the  communication  in 
all  its  bitter  force.  It  seemed  that  the 
only  one  left  on  earth  with  whom  she 
could  sympathize,  was  Thomas  :  and 
now  perhaps  he  was  going  !  Bessy, 
George,  Cecil,  all  were  younger,  all 
had  their  own  pursuits  and  interests, 
George  had  his  new  ties  ;  but  she  and 
Thomas  seemed  to  stand  alone.  With 
the  deep  sorrow  for  him,  the  brother 
whom  she  clearly  loved,  came  other 
considerations,  impossible  not  to  occur 
to  a  practical,  foreseeing  mind  like 
Janet's.  With  Thomas  they  should 
lose  Ashlydyat.  George  would  come 
into  possession:  and  George's  ways 
were  so  different  from  theirs  that  it 
would  seem  to  be  no  longer  in  the 
family.  What  would  George  make  of 
it  ?  .A  gay,  ever-filled  place,  like  the 
Yerralls — when  they  were  at  home — 
made  of  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly? 
Janet's  checks  flushed  at  the  idea  of 
such  degeneracy  for  stately  Ashlydyat. 
However  it  might  be,  whether  George 
turned  it  into  an  ever-open  house,  or 


THE     SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


183 


shut  it  up  as  a  nunnery,  it  would  be 
alike  lost  to  all  the  rest  of  them.  She 
and  her  sisters  must  turn  from  it  once 
again  and  forever ;  George,  his  wife, 
and  his  children,  would  reign. 

Janet  Godolphin  did  not  rebel  at 
this  ;  she  would  not  have  had  it  other- 
wise. Failing  Thomas,  George  was 
the  fit  and  proper  representative  of 
Ashlydyat.  But  the  fact  could  but 
strike  upon  her  now  with  gloom.  All 
things  wore  a  gloomy  hue  to  her  in  that 
unhappy  moment. 

It  would  cause  changes  at  the  bank, 
too.  At  least,  Janet  thought  it  prob- 
able that  it  might.  Could  George 
carry  on  that  extensive  concern  him- 
self? Would  the  public  be  satisfied 
with  gay  George  for  its  sole  head  ? — 
would  they  accord  him  the  confidence 
they  had  given  Thomas  ?  These  old 
retainers,  too  !  If  they  left  Ashly- 
dyat, they  must  part  with  them  :  leave 
them  to  serve  George. 

Such  considerations  passed  rapidly 
through  her  imagination.  It  could 
not  well  be  otherwise.  Would  they 
really  come  to  pass  ?  She  looked  at 
Thomas,  as  if  seeking  in  his  face  the 
answer  to  the  doubt. 

His  elbow  on  the  arm  of  his  chair, 
and  his  temples  pressed  upon  his  hand, 
sat  Thomas, — his  mind  in  as  deep  a 
revei'ie  as  was  Janet's.  W'here  was 
it  straying  to  ?  To  the  remembrance 
of  Ethel  ? — of  the  day  that  he  had 
stood  over  her  grave  when  they  were 
placing  her  in  it  ?  Was  the  time  in- 
deed come,  or  nearly  come,  to  which 
he  had  from  that  time  looked  for- 
ward ? — the  time  of  his  joining  her  ? 
He  had  never  lost  the  vista :  and  per- 
haps the  fiat,  death,  could  have  come 
to  few  who  would  meet  it  so  serenely 
as  Thomas  Godolphin.  It  would 
scarcely  be  right  to  say  welcome  it ; 
but,  certain  it  was,  that  the  prospect 
was  one  of  pleasantness  rather  than 
pain  to  him.  To  one  who  has  lived 
near  to  God  on  earth,  the  anticipation 
of  the  great  change  can  bring  no  dis- 
may. It  brought  none  to  Thomas 
Godolphin. 

But  Thomas  Godolphin  had  not 
done  with  earth  and  its  cares  vet. 


Bessy  Godolphin  was  away  from 
home  that  week.  She  had  gone  to 
spend  it  'with  some  friends  at  a  few 
miles'  distance.  Cecil  was  alone  when 
Janet  returned  to  the  drawing-room. 
She  had  no  suspicion  of  the  sorrow 
that  was  overhanging  the  house.  She 
has  not  seen  Thomas  go  to  the  Folly, 
and  felt  surprised  at  his  tardiness. 

"  How  late  he  will  be,  Janet !" 

"  Who  ?  Thomas  !  He  is  not  go- 
ing. He  is  not  very  well  this  even- 
ing," was  the  reply. 

Cecil  thought  nothing  of  it.  ,  How 
should  she  ?  Janet  buried  her  fears 
within  her,  and  said  no  more. 

One  was  to  dine  at  Lady  Godol- 
phin's  Folly  that  night  who  absorbed 
all  Cecil's  thoughts.  Cecil  Godolphin 
had  had  her  romance  in  life, — as  so 
many  have  it.  It  had  been  partially 
played  out  years  ago.  Not  quite. 
Its  'sequel  had  to  come.  She  sat 
there  listlessly,  —  her  pretty  hand? 
resting  inertly  on  her  knee,  her  beau- 
tiful face  tinged  with  the  setting  sun- 
light,— sat  there  thinking  of  him, — 
Lord  Averil. 

A  romance  it  had  really  been.  Cecil 
Godolphin  had  paid  a  long  visit  to 
the  Honorable  Mrs.  Averil  some  three 
or  four  years  ago.  She,  Mrs.  Averil, 
was  in  health  then,  fond  of  ga3rety, 
and  her  house  had  many  visitors. 
Amidst  others,  staying  there,  was 
Lord  Averil;  and  before  he  and  Cecil 
knew  well  what  they  were  about,  they 
had  learned  to  love.  Lord  Averil 
was  the  first  to  awake  from  the  pleas- 
ant dream, — to  know  what  it  meant, — 
and  he  discreetly  withdrew  himself 
out  of  harm's  way, — harm  only  to 
himself,  as  he  supposed :  he  never 
suspected  that  the  like  love  had  won 
its  way  to  Cecil  Godolphin, — a  strictly 
honorable  man,  he  would  have  been 
fit  to  kill  himself  in  self-condemnation 
had  he  suspected  that  it  had  Not 
until  he  had  gone,  did  it  come  out  to 
Cecil  that  he  was  a  married  man. 
When  only  eighteen  years  of  age,  he 
had  been  drawn  into  one  of  those  un- 
equal and  unhappy  alliances  that  can 
only  bring  a  flush  to  the  brow  in  after 
years.     Many  a  hundred  times  had  it 


1*4 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


dyed  that  of  Lord  Averil.  Before  he 
was  twenty  years  of  age  he  had  sepa- 
rated from  his  wife, — when  pretty 
Cecil  was  yet  a  child, — and  the  next 
ten  years  he  spent  abroad,  striving  to 
overget  its  remembrance.  His  own 
family,  you  may  be  sure,  did  not  pain 
him  by  alluding  to  it  then  or  after  his 
return.  He  had  no  residence  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Prior's  Ash.  When 
he  visited  it,  it  was  chiefly  as  the 
guest  of  Colonel  Max,  the  master  of 
the  fox-hounds :  and  that  was  the  way 
that  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Charlotte  Pain.  Thus  it  happened, 
when  Cecil  met  him  at  Mrs.  Averil's 
she  knew  nothing  of  his  being  a  mar- 
ried man.  On  Mrs.  Averil's  part,  she 
never  supposed  that  Cecil  did  not 
know  it.  Lord  Averil  supposed  she 
knew  it :  and  little  enough,  in  his 
own  eyes,  has  he  looked  in  her  pres- 
ence, when  the  thought  would  flash 
over  him,  "  How  she  must  despise  me 
for  my  mad  folly  !"  He  had  learned 
to  love  her,  —  to  love  her  passion- 
ately,—never  so  much  as  glancing  at 
the  thought  that  it  could  be  recipro- 
cated. He,  a  married  man  !  But  this 
was  no  less  mad  folly  than  the  other 
had  been,  and  .Lord  Averil  had  the 
sense  to  move  himself  away. 

A  day  or  two  after  his  departure, 
Mrs.  Averil  received  a  letter  from 
him.  Cecil  was  in  her  dressing-room 
when  she  read  it. 

"  How  strange  !"  was  the  comment 
of  Mrs.  Averil.  "What  do  you  think, 
Cecil  ?"  she  added,  lowering  her  voice. 
"  When  he  got  to  town  there  was  a 
communication  waiting  at  his  house 
for  him,  saying  that  his  wife  was 
dying,  and  praying  him  to  go  and  see 
her.'' 

"His  wife?"  echoed  Cecil.  "Whose 
wife  ?" 

"  Lord  Averil's.  Have  you  forgot- 
ten that  he  had  a  wife  ?  I  wish  we 
could  all  really  forget  it.  It  has  been 
the  blight  upon  his  life." 

Cecil  had  discretion  enough  left  in 
that  unhappy  moment  not  to  betray 
that  she  had  been  ignorant  of  the  fact. 
When  her  burning  cheeks  had  a  little 
cooled,  she  turned  from  the  window 


where  she  had  been  hiding  them,  and 
escaped  to  her  own  room.  The  reve- 
lation had  betrayed  to  her  the  secret 
of  her  own  feelings  for  Lord  Averil ; 
and,  in  her  pride  and  rectitude,  sh« 
thought  she  should  have  died. 

A  day  or  two  more,  and  Lord  Ave- 
ril was  a  widower.  He  suffered  some 
months  to  elapse,  and  then  came  to 
PriorTs  Ash,  his  object  being  Cecil 
Godolphin.  He  staved  at  an  hotel, 
and  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  Ashly- 
dyat.  Cecil  believed  that  he  meant 
to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife  :  and  Cecil 
was  not  wrong.  She  could  give  her- 
self up  now  to  the  full  joy  of  loving 
him. 

Busy  tongues,  belonging  to  some 
young  ladies  who  could  boast  more  wit 
than  discretion,  hinted  something  of 
this  to  Cecil.  Cecil,  in  her  vexation 
at  having  her  private  feelings  sus- 
pected, spoke  slightingly  of  Lord 
Averil.  Did  they  think  she  would 
stoop  to  a  widower, — to  one  who  had 
made  himself  so  notorious  by  his  first 
marriage?  —  she  asked.  And  this, 
word  for  word,  was  repeated  to  Lord 
Averil. 

It  was  repeated  to  him  by  those 
false  friends,  and  Cecil's  haughty  man- 
ner, as  she  spoke  it,  offensively  com- 
mented upon.  Lord  Averil  believed 
it  fully.  He  judged  that  he  had  no 
chance  with  Cecil  Godolphin ;  and, 
without  speaking  to  her  of  what  had 
been  his  intentions,  he  again  left. 

But  now,  no  suspicion  of  this  con- 
versation having  been  repeated  to 
him,  ever  reached  Cecil.  She  deemed 
his  behavior  very  bad.  Whatever 
restraint  he  may  have  laid  upon  his 
manners  towards  her  when  at  Mrs. 
Averil's,  he  had  been  open  enough 
since :  and  Cecil  could  only  believe 
his  conduct  unjustifiable,  the  result 
of  fickleness.  She  resolved  to  forget 
him. 

But  she  had  not  done  it  yet.  All 
this  long  while  since,  between  two 
and  three  years,  had  Cecil  been  trying 
at  it,  and  it  was  not  yet  accomplished. 
She  had  received  an  offer  from  a  young 
and  handsome  earl  ;  it  would  have 
been  a  match  every  way  desirable  : 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT, 


185 


but  poor  Cecil  found  that  Lord  Averil 
was  too  deeply  seated  in  her  heart  for 
her  to  admit  thought  of  another.  And 
now  Lord  Averil  was  back  at  Prior's 
Ash  ;  and,  as  Cecil  had  heard,  was  to 
dine  that  day  at  Lady  Godolphin's 
Folly.  He  had  called  at  Ashlydyat 
gince  his  return,  but  she  was  out. 

She  sat  there  thinking  of  him  :  her 
prominent  feeling  against  him  being 
anger.  She  believed  to  this  hour  that 
he  had  used  her  ill, — that  his  behavior 
had  been  unbecoming  a  gentleman. 

Her  reflections  were  disturbed  by 
the  sight  of  Mr.  Snow.  It  was  grow- 
ing dusk  then,  and  she  wondered  what 
brought  him  there  so  late, — in  fact, 
what  brought  him  there  at  all.  She 
turned  and  asked  the  question  of 
Janet. 

"  He  has  come  to  see  Thomas,"  re- 
plied Janet.  And  Cecil  noticed  that 
her  sister  was  sitting  in  a  strangely 
still  attitude,  her  head  bowed  down. 
But  she  did  not  connect  it  with  its 
true  cause.  It  was  nothing  unusual 
to  see  Janet  lost  in  deep  thought. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Thomas, 
that  Mr.  Snow  should  come  ?"  inquired 
Cecil. 

"He  did  not  feel  well,  and  sent  for 
him." 

It  was  all  that  Janet  answered. 
And  Cecil  continued  in  blissful  igno- 
rance of  any  thing  being  wrong,  and 
resumed  her  reflections  on  Lord 
Averil. 

Janet  saw  Mr.  Snow  before  he  went 
away.  Afterwards  she  went  to  Thom- 
as's room  and  remained  in  it.  Cecil 
stayed  in  the  drawing-room,  buried  in 
her  dream.  The  room  was  lighted, 
but  the  blinds  were  not  drawn  down  : 
Cecil  was  at  the  window,  looking 
forth  into  the  bright  moonlight. 

It  must  have  been  getting  quite  late 
when  she  discerned  some  one  ap- 
proaching Ashlydyat,  on  the  road 
from  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly.  From 
the  height,  she  fancied  at  first  that  it 
might  be  George  ;  but  as  the  figure 
drew  nearer,  her  heart  gave  a  great 
bound,  and  she  saw  that  it  was  he  upon 
whom  her  thoughts  had  been  fixed. 

Yes,  it  was   Lord  Averil.     When 


he  mentioned  to  Charlotte  Pain  that 
ho  had  a  visit  yet  to  pay  to  a  sick 
friend,  he  had  alluded  to  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin.  Lord  Averil,  since  his  re- 
turn, had  been  struck  with  the  change 
in  Thomas  Godolphin.  It  was  more 
perceptible  to  him  than  to  those  who 
saw  Thomas  habitually.  And  when 
the  apology  came  for  Mr.  Godolphin's 
absence,  Lord  Averil  determined  to 
call  upon  him  that  night.  Though, 
in  talking  to  Mrs.  Pain,  he  nearly  let 
the  time  for  it  slip  by. 

Cecil  rose  up  when  he  entered.  In 
broad  day  he  might  have  seen,  beyond 
doubt,  her  changing  face,  telling  of 
emotion.  Was  he  mistaken,  in  fancy- 
ing that  she  was  agitated  ?  His 
pulses  quickened  at  the  thought:  for 
Cecil  was  as  dear  to  him  as  she  bad 
ever  been. 

"  Will  you  pardon  my  intrusion  at 
this  hour  ?"  he  asked,  taking  her  hand, 
and  bending  towards  her  with  his 
sweet  smile.  "  It  is  later  than  I 
thought  it  was," — in  truth,  ten  was 
striking  that  moment  from  the  hall- 
clock.  "  I  was  concerned  to  hear  of 
Mr.  Godolphin's  illness,  and  wished 
to  ascertain  how  he  was,  before  re- 
turning to  Prior's  Ash." 

"  He  has  kept  his  room  this  even- 
ing," replied  Cecil.  "My  sister  is 
sitting  with  him.  I  do  not  think  it  is 
any  thing  serious.  But  he  has  not 
appeared  very  well  of  late." 

"  Indeed,  I  trust  it  is  nothing  seri- 
ous," warmly  responded  Lord  Averil. 

Cecil  fell  into  silence.  She  sup- 
posed they  had  told  Janet  of  the  visit, 
and  that  she  would  be  coming  in. 
Lord  Averil  went  to  the  window. 

"  The  same  charming  Scene !"  he 
exclaimed.  "  I  think  the  moonlight 
view  from  this  window  beautiful. 
The  dark  trees  around,  and  the  white 
walls  of  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly,  ris- 
ing there,  remain  on  my  memory  like 
the  scene  of  an  old  painting." 

He  folded  his  arms  and  stood  there, 
gazing  still.  Cecil  stole  a  look  up  at 
him, — at  his  pale,  attractive  face,  with 
its  expression  of  care.  She  had  won- 
dered once  why  that  look  of  cars 
should  be  conspicuous  there  :  but  not 


186 


THE       SHADOW       OF       ASHLYDYAT. 


after  she  became  acquainted  with  his 
domestic  history. 

"  Have  you  returned  to  England  to 
remain,  Lord  Averil  ?" 

The  question  awoke  him  from  his 
reverie.  He  turned  to  Cecil,  and  a 
sudden  impulse  prompted  him  to  stake 
his  fate  on  the  die  of  the  moment. 
It  was  not  a  lucky  throw. 

"  I  would  remain  if  I  could  induce 
one  to  share  my  name  and  home. 
Forgive  me,  Cecil,  if  I  anger  you  by 
thus  hastily  speaking.  Will  you  for- 
get the  past,  and  help  me  to  forget  it  ? 
— will  you  let  me  make  you  my  dear 
wife  ?" 

In  saying  "  Will  Arou  forget  the 
past,"  Lord  Averil  had  alluded  to  his 
first  marriage.  In  his  extreme  sensi- 
tiveness upon  that  point,  he  doubted 
whether  Cecil  might  not  object  to 
succeed  the  dead  Lady  Averil :  he 
believed  those  hasty  and  ill-natured 
words,  reported  to  him  as  having  been 
spoken  by  her,  bore  upon  that  sore 
point  alone.  Cecil,  on  the  contrary, 
assumed  that  her  forgetfulness  was 
asked  for  his  own  behavior  to  her,  in 
so  far  that  he  had  gone  away  and  left 
her  without  a  word  of  explanation. 
She  grew  quite  pale  with  anger. 
Lord  Averil  resumed,  his  manner 
earnest,  his  voice  low  and  tender. 

"I  have  loved  you  Cecil,  from  the 
first  day  that  I  saw  you  at  Mrs.  Ave- 
ril's.  I  dragged  myself  away  from 
the  place,  because  I  loved  you,  fearing 
lest  you  might  come  to  see  my  folly. 
It  was  worse  than  folly  then,  for  I  was 
not  a  free  man.  I  have  gone  on  lov- 
ing you  more  and  more,  from  that 
time  to  this.  I  went  abroad  this  last 
time  hoping  to  forget  you;  striving 
to  forget  you  :  but  I  cannot  do  it,  and 
the  love  has  only  become  stronger. 
Forgive,  I  say,  my  urging  it  upon 
you  in  this  moment  of  impulse." 

Poor  Cecil  was  all  at  sea.  "  Went 
abroad  hoping  to  forget  her;  striving 
to  forget  her  !"  It  was  worse  and 
worse.     She  flung  his  hand  away. 

"  Oh,  Cecil !  can  you  not  love  me  ?" 
he  exclaimed,  in  agitation.  "  Will 
you  not  give  me  hopes  that  you  will 
sometime  be  my  wife  ?" 


"  No,  I  cannot  love  you.  I  will 
not  give  you  hopes.  I  would  rather 
marry  any  one  in  the  world  than  you. 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself, 
Lord  Averil !" 

Not  a  very  dignified  rejoinder.  And 
Cecil,  what  with  anger,  what  with 
love,  burst  into  even  less  dignified 
tears,  and  quitted  the  room  in  a  pas- 
sion.    Lord  Averil  bit  his  lips  to  pain. 

Janet  entered,  unsuspicious.  He 
turned  from  the  window,  and  smoothed 
his  brow,  gathering  what  equanimity 
he  could,  as  he  proceeded  to  inquire 
after  Mr.  Godolphin. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

CHARLOTTE    PAIN'S    "  TURN-OUT." 

A  stylish  vehicle,  high  enough 
for  a  fire-escape,  its  green  wheels 
picked  out  with  gleaming  red,  was 
clashing  up  the  street  of  Prior's  Ash. 
A  lady  was  seated  in  it,  driving  its 
pair  of  blood-horses,  whose  restive 
mettle  appeared  more  fit  for  a  man's 
guidance  than  a  woman's.  You  need 
not  be  told  that  it  was  Charlotte  Pain : 
nobody  else  of  her  sex  in  Prior's  Ash 
would  have  driven  such  a  turn-out. 
Prior's  Ash,  rather  at  a  loss  what 
name  to  give  it,  for  the  like  of  it  had 
never  been  seen  in  that  sober  place, 
christened  it  "  Mrs.  Pain's  turn-out :" 
so,  if  you  grumble  at  the  name,  you 
must  grumble  at  them,  not  at  me. 

Past  the  bank  it  flew ;  when,  as  if  a 
sudden  thought  appeared  to  take  the 
driver,  it  suddenly  whirled  round,  to 
the  imminent  danger  of  the  street  in 
general,  retraced  its  steps  past  the 
bank,  dashed*  round  the  corner  of 
Crosse  Street,  and  drew  up  at  the  en- 
trance to  Mr.  George  Godolphin's. 
The  servant  sprang  from  the  seat  be- 
hind. 

"Inquire  if  Mrs.  George  Godolphin 
is  within." 

Mrs.  George  Godolphin  was  within, 
and  Charlotte  entered.  Across  the 
hall,  up  the  handsome  staircase,  lined 


THE'  SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


187 


with  painting's,  to  the  still  more  hand- 
some drawing-room,  swept  she,  con- 
ducted by  a  servant.  Margery  looked 
out  at  an  opposite  door,  as  Charlotte 
entered  that  of  the  drawing-room,  her 
curious  eyes  taking  in  at  a  glance 
Charlotte's  attire.  Charlotte  wore  a 
handsome  mauve  brocaded  skirt,  trail- 
ing on  the  ground  at  the  very  least 
half  a  yard  behind  her,  and  a  close 
habit  body  of  mauve  velvet.  A  black 
hat  with  a  turned-up  brim,  and  profu- 
sion of  mauve  feathers  surmounted  her 
head  ;  and  a  little  bit  of  gauze,  mauve- 
colored  also,  came  half-way  down  her 
face,  fitting  tight  round  the  nose  and 
cheeks. 

Margery  retired  with  a  sniff.  Had 
it  been  anybody  she  approved,  any 
especial  friend  of  her  mistress's,  she 
would  have  invited  her  into  her  mis- 
tress's presence,  to  the  little  sitting- 
room,  where  Maria  was, — a  pretty 
sitting-room,  tastily  furnished.  The 
bed-room,  dressing-room,  and  this 
sitting-room  communicated  with  each 
other.  Being  who  it  was,  Margery 
allowed  the  grand  drawing-room  the 
honor  of  receiving  the  visitor. 

Maria  sat  at  a  table,  her  drawing 
materials  before  her.  Miss  Meta, 
perched  in  a  high  chair,  was  accom- 
modated with  a  pencil  and  paper  op- 
posite. "  It's  Mrs.  Pain  in  a  mask," 
was  the  salutation  of  Margery. 

Maria  laid  down  her  pencil.  "  Mrs. 
Pain  in  a  mask  !"  she  echoed. 

"  It  looks  like  nothing  else,  ma'am, 
the  thing  she's  got  on,"  responded 
Margery.  "J  never  saw  Christian 
folks  make  themselves  into  such  spec- 
tacles afore.  It's  to  be  hoped  she 
won't  go  in  that  guise  to  call  at  Ashly- 
dyat :  Miss  Janet  would  be  for  send- 
ing for  the  mad  doctor." 

Mai'ia  smiled.  "  You  never  admire 
Mrs.  Pain's  style  of  dress,  Margery." 

"  It's  not  a  taking  one,"  rejoined 
Margery.  "  Honest  faces  would  as 
soon  see  themselves  standing  out  from 
a  brass  warming-pan,  as  wuth  one  of 
them  brazen  hats  stuck  atop  of  'em." 

Apart  from  her  prejudices  against 
Mrs.  Pain, — whatever  those  prejudices 
might  be, — it  was  evident  that  Mar- 


gery did  not  admire  the  fashionable 
head-gear.  Had  Maria  ventured  to 
put  one  on,  Margery  would  most  prob- 
ably have  removed  it  from  her  head 
with  her  own  fingers,  and  an  intima- 
tion that  it  was  not  "proper."  Maria 
moved  to  the  door,  and  Miss  Meta 
scrambled  off  her  chair,  to  follow  her. 
"Meta  go  too,  mamma." 

Margery  caught  the  child  up  as  if 
she  were  snatching  her  from  a  burn- 
ing furnace,  smothered  her  in  her 
arms,  and  whispered  unheard-of  vis- 
ions of  immediate  cakes  and  sweet- 
meats that  were  to  be  had  by  ascend- 
ing to  the  nursery,  and  bore  her  away 
in  triumph.  Did  she  fear  there  was 
contamination  for  the  child  in  Mrs. 
Pain's  hat  ? 

Maria  not  having  observed  the  bit 
of  by-play,  proceeded  to  the  presence 
of  Charlotte.  Not  a  greater  contrast 
had  there  been  between  them  in  those 
old  days  at  Broomhead,  than  there 
was  now.  Maria,  the  same  quiet, 
essentially  lady -like  girl  as  of  yore  : 
she  looked  but  a  girl  still,  in  her  pretty 
dress  of  spring  muslin.  Charlotte 
was  standing  at  the  window,  watch- 
ing her  restless  horses,  which  the  ser- 
vant was  driving  about,  from  one 
street  to  the  other,  but  could  scarcely 
manage.  She  put  back  her  hand  to 
Maria. 

"  How  are  you  to-day,  Mrs.  George 
Godolphin  ?  Excuse  my  apparent 
rudeness  :  I  am  looking  at  my  horses. 
If  the  man  cannot  keep  them  within 
bounds,  I  must  go  down  myself." 

Maria  took  her  place  by  the  side  of 
Charlotte.  The  horses  looked  terrific 
animals  to  her  eyes,  very  much  in- 
clined to  kick  the  carriage  to  pieces 
and  to  bolt  into  the  bank  afterwards. 
"  Did  you  drive  them  here  ?" 

"  Nobody  else  can  drive  them,"  re- 
plied Charlotte,  with  a  laugh.  "I 
should  like  to  seduce  Kate  behind 
them  some  day  when  she  is  down 
here  :  she  would  be  in  a  fit  with  fright 
before  we  were  home  again." 

"  How  can  you  risk  your  own  life, 
Mrs.  Pain  ?" 

"My  life  !  that  is  a  good  joke,"  said 
Charlotte.     "  If  I  could  not  manage 


188 


T  IT  E      SHADOW      OF      A  S  IT  L  Y  D  Y  A  T , 


the  horses,  I  should  not  drive  them. 
Did  you  notice  the  one  I  was  riding 
yesterday,  when  you  met  me  with 
your  husband — a  party  of  us  together  ?" 

"Not  particularly,"  replied  Maria. 
"  It  was  just  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
you  know.  I  think  I  looked  chiefly 
at  George." 

"  You  ought  to  have  noticed  my 
horse.  You  must  see  him  another 
time.  He  is  the  most  splendid  ani- 
mal,— down  from  London  only  the 
previous  day.  I  rode  him  yesterday 
for  the  first  time." 

"  I  should  not  detect  any  of  his 
beauties  ;  I  scarcely  know  one  horse 
from  another,"  acknowledged  Maria. 

'''Ah  !  You  are  not  particularly  ob- 
servant," returned  Charlotte,  in agood- 
humored  tone  of  sarcasm.  "  The  horse 
was  a  present  to  me.  He  cost  a  hun- 
dred and  thirty  guineas.  Those  ani- 
mals below  are  getting  quieter  now." 

She  withdrew  from  the  window, 
sitting  down  on  a  sofa.  Maria  took  a 
seat  near  her.  "  We  had  been  to  see 
Mrs.  Averil  yesterday  when  wTe  met 
you,"  observed  Maria.  "  She  is  still 
a  great  sufferer." 

"  So  Lord  Averil  told  me,"  answered 
Charlotte.  "  He  dined  at  the  Folly 
yesterday." 

"  Did  he  ?  George  did  not  mention 
that  Lord  Averil  was  of  the  party. 
Did  you  dine  with  them  ?" 

"Not  I,"  answered  Charlotte.  "It 
was  bore  enough  to  have  them  in  the 
drawing-room  afterwards.  Only  a  few 
of  them  came  in.  As  to  your  hus- 
band, I  never  set  eyes  upon  him  at 
all." 

"He  came  home  early.  I  think  his 
head  ached.      He " 

"Oh,  he  did  come  home,  then  !"  in- 
terrupted Charlotte. 

Maria  looked  surprised.  "  Of  course 
he  came  home.     Why  should  he  not  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  why  ?"  was 
Charlotte's  answer.  "  This  house  has 
the  bother  of  it  to-night,  I  hear.  It 
is  nothing  but  a  bother,  a  gentleman's 
dinner-party  !" 

"  It  is  a  sort  of  business-party  to- 
night, I  believe,"  observed  Maria. 

"  Verrall  is  coming.     He  told  me 


so.  Do  you  know  how  Mr.  Godol- 
phin  is  ?"  ' 

"  He  seems  as  well  as  usual.  He 
is  come  to-day,  and  I  saw  him  for  a 
minute.  George  told  me  that  he  did 
not  appear  at  dinner  yesterday.  Mar- 
gery  " 

A  commotion  in  the  street.  Char- 
lotte flew  to  one  of  the  windows, 
opened  it,  and  stretched  herself  out. 
But  she  could  not  see  the  carriage, 
which  was  then  in  Crosse  Street.  A 
mob  was  collecting  and  shouting. 

"  I  suppose  I  had  better  go.  That 
stupid  man  never  can  keep  horses  in 
good  humor,  if  they  have  any  spirit, 
Good-by,  Mrs.  George  Godolphin." 

She  ran  down  the  stairs  and  out  at 
the  hall-door,  giving  no  time  to  a 
servant  to  show  her  out,  Maria  pro- 
ceeded to  her  little  sitting-room,  which 
looked  into  Crosse  Street,  to  see 
whether  any  thing  was  the  matter. 

Something  might  have  been,  but 
that  George  Godolphin  hearing  the 
outcry,  had  flown  out  to  the  aid  of 
servant.  The  man,  in  his  fear — he 
was  a  timid  man  with  horses,  and  it 
was  a  wonder  Charlotte  kept  him — 
had  got  out  of  the  carriage.  George 
leaped  into  it,  took  the  reins  and  the 
whip,  and  succeeded  in  restoring  the 
horses  to  what  Charlotte  called  good 
humor.  Maria's  heart  beat  when  she 
saw  her  husband  there  :  she,  like  the 
man,  was  timid.  George,  however, 
alighted  unharmed,  and  stood  talking 
with  Charlotte.  He  was  without  his 
hat.  Then  he  handed  Charlotte  in, 
and  stood  looking  up  and  talking  to 
her  again,  the  seat  being  about  a  mile 
above  his  head.  Charlotte,  at  any 
rate,  had  no  fear ;  she  nodded  a  final 
adieu  to  George,  and  drove  away  at  a 
fast  pace,  George  gazing  after  her. 

Intimate  as  George  Godolphin  was 
with  Charlotte  Pain,  no  such  thought 
as  that  of  attributing  it  to  a  wrong  mo- 
tive, ever  occurred  to  Maria.  She  had 
been  jealous  of  Charlotte  Pain  in  the 
old  days,  when  she  was  Maria  Hast- 
ings, dreading  that  George  might 
choose  her  for  his  wife  :  but  with 
their  marriage  all  such  feeling  ceased. 
Maria  was  an  English  gentlewoman, 


THE      S  n  A  I)  0  W      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T 


189 


in  the  best  sense  of  the  term  ;  of  a  re- 
fined, retiring;  nature,  of  simply  modest 
speech,  innocent  of  heart:  to  associate 
harm  now  with  her  husband  and  Char- 
lotte, was  athing  next  to  impossible  for 
her  to  glance  at.  Unbiased  by  others, 
she  would  never  be  likely  to  glance  at 
it.  She  did  not  like  Charlotte  :  where 
tastes  and  qualities  are  so  much  op- 
posed as  they  were  in  her  and  Char- 
lotte Pain,  mutual  predilection  is  not 
easy :  but,  to  suspect  any  greater 
cause  for  dislike,  was  foreign  to  Ma- 
ria's nature.  Had  Maria  even  re- 
ceived a  hint  that  the  fine  saddle- 
horse,  boasted  of  by  Charlotte  as 
worthy  Maria's  special  observation, 
and  costing  a  hundred  and  thirty 
guineas,  was  a  present  from  her  hus- 
band, she  would  have  attached  no 
motive  to  the  gift,  but  kindness  ;  given 
him  no  worse  word  than  a  hint  at 
extravagance.  Maria  could  almost 
as  soon  have  disbelieved  in  herself  as 
disbelieved  in  the  cardinal  virtues  of 
George  Godolphin. 

It  was  the  day  of  one  of  George's 
dinner-parties, — as  Charlotte  has  an- 
nounced for  our  information.  Four- 
teen were  expected  to  sit  down,  inclu- 
sive of  himself  and  his  brother, — mostly 
countrymen  ;  men  who  did  business 
with  the  bank;  Mi*. Verrall  and  Lord 
Averil  being  two  of  them  :  but  Mr. 
Verrall  did  not  do  business  with  the 
bank,  and  was  not  looked  upon  as  a 
countryman.  It  was  not  Maria's  cus- 
tom to  appear  at  all  at  these  parties  : 
she  did  not,  like  Charlotte  Pain,  play 
the  hostess  afterwards  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Sometimes  Maria  would  spend 
these  evenings  out:  at  Ashlydyat,  or 
at  the  rectory :  sometimes,  as  was  her 
intention  on  this  evening,  she  would 
remain  in  the  pretty  sitting-room  in 
her  own  apartments,  leaving  the  house 
froe.  She  had  been  busy  over  her 
drawing  all  day,  and  had  not  quitted 
it  to  stir  abroad. 

Mr.  George  had  stirred  abroad.  Mr. 
George  had  taken  a  late  afternoon 
ride  with  Charlotte  Pain.  He  came 
home  barely  in  time  to  dress.  The 
bank  was  closed  for  the  day :  the 
clerks  had  all  gone,  save  one, — the  old 


cashier,  Mr.  Hurde.  He  sometimes 
stayed  later  than  the  rest. 

"Any  private  letters  for  me?"  in- 
quired George,  hastening  into  the 
office,  whip  in  hand,  and  devouring  the 
letter-rack  with  eager  eyes,  where  the 
unopened  letters  were  usually  put. 

The  cashier,  a  tall  man  once,  but 
stooping  now,  with  silver  spectacles 
and  white  whiskers,  stretched  up  his 
neck  to  look  also.  "  There's  one 
there,  sir,"  he  cried,  before  George 
had  quite  crossed  the  office. 

George  made  a  grab  at  the  letter. 
It  stuck  in  the  rack,  and  he  gave  vent 
to  an  impatient  word.  A  Wank  look 
of  disappointment  came  over  his  face, 
when  he  saw  the  direction. 

"This  is  not  for  me.  This  is  for 
Mr.  Hastings.  Who  sorted  the  letters  ?" 
"Mr.  Hastings,  I  believe,  sir,  as  usual." 
"What  made  him  put  his  own  letter 
in  the  rack  ?"  muttered  George  to  him- 
self. He  went  about  the  office  ;  he  went 
into  the  private  room  and  searched  his 
own  table.  No  :  there  was  no  letter  for 
him.  Mr.  Hurde  remembered  that 
Mr.  George  Godolphin  had  been  put 
out  in  the  morning  by  not  receiving 
an  expected  letter. 

George  looked  at  his  watch.  "  There's 
no  time  to  go  to  Yerrall's,"  he  thought. 
"And  he  would  be  starting  to  come 
here  by  the  time  I  got  up  to  the  Folly." 

Up  to  his  own  room  to  dress,  which 
was  not  a  long  process.  He  then  en- 
tered his  wife's  sitting-room. 

"  Drawing  still,  Maria  ?" 

She  looked  up  with  a  bright  glance. 
"  I  have  been  so  industrious  !  I  have 
been  drawing  nearly  all  day.  See  !  I 
have  nearly  finished  this." 

George  stood  by  the  table  in  a  list- 
less manner,  his  thoughts  preoccupied, 
— not  pleasantly  preoccupied,  either. 
Presently  he  began  turning  over  the 
old  sketches  in  Maria's  portfolio.  Ma- 
ria quitted  her  seat,  and  stood  by  her 
husband,  her  arni  round  his  neck.  He 
was  now  sitting  sideways  on  a  chair. 

"  I  put  some  of  these  drawings  into 
the  portfolio  this  morning,"  she  ob- 
served. "  I  found  them  in  a  box  in 
the  lumber-room.  They  had  not  been 
disinterred.  I  do  believe,  since  they 


190 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


came  here  from  the  rectory.  Do  you 
remember  that  one,  George  ?" 

He  took  the  sketch  she  pointed  to, 
in  his  hand.  A  few  moments  and  then 
the  recollection  flashed  over  him.  "  It 
is  a  scene  near  Broomhcad  1  That  is 
Bray's  cottage." 

"  How  glad  I  am  that  you  recog- 
nize it !"  she  cried,  gleefully.  "  It  is 
a  proof  that  I  sketched  it  faithfully. 
Do  you  remember  the  day  that  I  did 
it,  George  ?" 

George  could  not  remember  that. 
"Not  particularly,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  George!  It  was  the  day  I 
was  frightened  by  seeing  that  snake, 
— or  whatever  it  was.  You,  and  I, 
and  Charlotte  Pain,  were  there.  We 
took  refuge  in  Bray's  house." 

"  Refuge  from  the  snake  ?"  asked 
George. 

Maria  laughed.  "  Lady  Godolphin 
came  up,  and  said  I  ought  to  go  there 
and  rest,  and  take  some  water.  How 
terribly  frightened  I  was  !  I  can  re- 
call it  still.  Bray  wanted  to  marry  us 
afterwards,"  she  continued,  laughing 
more  heartily. 

"  Bray  would  have  married  me  to 
both  of  you,  you  and  Charlotte,  for  a 
crown  apiece,"  said  George. 

"  Were  you  in  earnest. — when  you 
asked  me  to  let  him  do  it  ?"  she 
dreamily  inquired,  after  a  pause,  her 
thoughts  cast  back  to  the  past. 

"  I  dare  say  I  was,  Maria.  We 
do  foolish  things  sometimes.  Had 
you  said  yes,  I  should  have  thought, 
you  a  silly  girl  afterwards  for  your 
pains." 

"  Of  course  you  would.  Do  you  see 
that  old  Welshwoman  in  the  door- 
way?" resumed  Maria,  pointing  to  the 
drawing.  "  She  was  a  nice  old  body, 
in  spite  of  her  pipe.  I  wonder  whether 
she  is  alive  ?  Perhaps  Margery  knows. 
Margery  had  a  letter  from  her  sister 
this  morning." 

"Had  she?"  carelessly  returned 
George.  "  I  saw  there  was  a  letter 
for  her  with  the  Scotch  postmark.  Has 
Bray  come  to  grief  yet  ?" 

"I  fancy  they  are  always  in  grief, 
by  the  frequency  of  the  appeals  to 
Margery.     Lady  Godolphin  is  kind  to 


the  wife.  She  tells  Margery,  if  it 
were  not  for  my  lady,  she  would 
starve." 

An  arrival  was  heard  as  Maria 
spoke,  and  George  rang  the  bell.  It 
was  answered  by  Maria's  maid,  but 
George  said  he  wanted  the  butler. 
The  man  appeared. 

"  Is  Mr.  Yerrall  come  ?" 

"No,  sir.     It  is  Mr.  Godolphin." 

"  When  Mr.  Yerrall  comes,  show 
him  into  the  bank-parlor,  and  call  me. 
I  wish  to  see  him  before  he  goes  into 
the  drawing-room." 

The  man  departed  with  his  order. 
George  went  into  the  bedroom  which 
was  adjoining.  A  few  minutes,  and 
some  one  else  was  heard  to  come  in, 
and  run  up  the  stairs  with  eager  steps. 
It  was  followed  by  an  impatient  knock- 
ing at  Maria's  door. 

"It  proved  to  be  Isaac  Hastings, 
— a  fine-looking  young  man,  with  a 
sensible  countenance.  "  Have  they 
gone  in  to  dinner  yet,  Maria?"  he 
hastily  cried. 

"  No.  It  is  not  time.  Nobody's 
come  but  Mr.  Godolphin." 

"  I  did  such  a  stupid  trick.     I " 

"  Is  it  you,  Isaac  ?"  interrupted 
George,  returning  to  the  room.  "  I 
could  not  think  who  it  was,  rushing 
up." 

"  I  wanted  to  catch  you,  sir,  before 
you  went  in  to  dinner,"  replied  Isaac, 
holding  out  a  letter  to  George.  "  It 
came  for  you  this  afternoon,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  and  I  put  it,  as  I  thought,  in 
the  rack ;  and  one  for  myself,  which 
also  came,  I  put  in  my  pocket.  Just 
now  I  found  that  I  had  brought  away 
yours,  and  left  mine." 

"  Yours  is  in  the  rack  now,"  said 
George.  "  I  wondered  what  brought 
it  there.  Hurde  said  you  sorted  the 
letters." 

He  took  the  letter,  glanced  at  its 
superscription,  and  retired  to  the  win- 
dow to  read  it.  There  appeared  to  be 
but  a  very  few  lines.  George  read  it 
twice  over,  and  then  lifted  his  flushed 
face, — flushed  as  it  seemed  with  pain, 
with  a  perplexed,  hopeless  sort  of  ex- 
pression. Maria  could  see  his  face  in 
the  pier-glass.     She  turned  to  him  : 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


191 


"  George,  what  is  it  ?  You  have 
bad  news  !" 

He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand : 
"Bad  news!  Nothing  of  the  sort. 
Why  should  you  think  that  ?  It  is  a 
business-letter  that  I  ought  to  have 
had  yesterday,  though,  and  I  am  vexed 
at  the  delay." 

He  left  the  room  again.  Isaac  pre- 
pared to  depart. 

"  Will  you  stay  and  take  tea  with 
me,  Isaac  ?"  asked  Maria.  "  I  have 
dined.     I  am  expecting  Rose." 

"  I  am  out  at  tea  already,"  answered 
Isaac,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  was  at  Grace's. 
We  were  beginning  tea,  when  I  put 
my  hand  in  my  pocket  to  take  out  the 
letter,  and  found  it  was  Mr.  George 
Godolphin's." 

"You  were  not  in  a  hurry  to  read 
your  own  letter,"  returned  Maria. 

"  No.  I  knew  whom  it  was  from. 
There  was  no  hurry.  I  ran  all  the 
way  from  Grace's  here,  and  now  I 
must  run  back  again.  Good-by, 
Maria. " 

Isaac  went.  George  was  in  and  out 
of  the  room,  walking  about  in  a  rest- 
less manner.  Several  arrivals  had 
been  heard,  and  Maria  felt  sure  that 
all  the  guests,  or  nearly  all,  must  have 
come.  "  Why  don't  you  go  to  them, 
George  ?"  she  asked. 

The  hour  for  dinner  struck  as  she 
spoke,  and  George  quitted  the  room. 
He  did  not  enter  the  drawing-room, 
but  went  down  and  spoke  to  the 
butler. 

"  Is  Mr.  Yerrall  not  come  yet  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  Every  one  else  is 
here." 

George  retraced  his  steps  up-stairs 
and  entered  the  drawing-room.  He 
was  gay  George  again ;  handsome 
George  ;  not  a  line  of  perplexity  could 
be  traced  on  his  open  brow,  not  a 
shade  of  care  in  his  bright  blue  eye. 
He  shook  hands  with  his  guests,  offer- 
ing only  a  half  apology  for  his  tardi- 
ness, and  saying  that  he  knew  his 
brother  was  there  to  replace  him. 

Some  minutes  of  busy  conversation, 
and  then  it  nagged  :  another  few  min- 
utes of  it,  and  a  second  flag.  Thomas 
Godolphin    whispered    his    brother, 


"  George,  I  should  not  wait.  Mr.  Yer- 
rall cannot  be  coming." 

George  went  quite  red,  apparently 
with  anger.  "Not  be  coming?  Of 
course  he  is  coming !  There's  nothing 
likely  to  detain  him." 

Thomas   said    no   more.     But   the 

waiting well,  you  all  know  what 

it  is,  this  awkward  waiting  for  dinner. 
By-and-by  the  butler  looked  into  the 
room.  George  thought  it  might  be  a 
hint  that  the  dinner  was  spoiling, 
and  he  reluctantly  gave  orders  for 
serving. 

A  knock  at  the  door — a  loud  knock 
— resounding  through  the  house. 
George  Godolphin's  face  lighted  up. 
"  There  he  is  !"  he  exclaimed.  "But  it 
was  too  bad  of  him  to  keep  us  wait- 
ing." 

There  he  is  not,  George  might  have 
said,  could  he  have  looked  through 
the  closed  door  at  the  applicant 
standing  there.  It  was  only  an  even- 
ing visitor  for  Maria, — pretty  Rose 
Hastings. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

A  REVELATION  IN  THE  ASH- TREE  WALK. 

The  dinner-table  was  spacious : 
consequently,  the  absence  of  one  at  it 
was  conspicuous.  Mr.Yerrall's  chair 
was  still  left:  he  would  come  yet, 
George  said.  There  was  no  clergy- 
man present,  and  Thomas  Godolphin 
said  the  grace.  He  sat  at  the  foot  of 
the  table,  opposite  to  his  brother. 

"  We  are  thirteen !"  exclaimed  Sir 
John  Pevans,  a  young  baronet,  Who 
had  been  reared  to  be  a  milksop,  and 
feared  consumption  for  himself.  "  I 
don't  much  like  it.  It  is  the  ominous 
number,  you  know." 

Some  of  them  laughed.  "  What  is 
that  peculiar  superstition  ?"  asked 
Colonel  Max.  "I  have  never  been 
able  to  understand  it." 

"  The  superstition  is, -that  if  a  party 
of  thirteen  sit  down  to  dinner,  one  of 
them  is  sure  to  die  before  the  year  i« 


192 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


out,"  replied  young  Pevans,  speaking 
with  grave  seriousness. 

"  Why  is  thirteen  not  as  good  a 
number  to  sit  down  as  any  other  V 
cried  Colonel  Max,  humoring  the  bar- 
onet. "  As  good  as  fourteen,  for  in- 
stance ?" 

"  It's  the  odd  number." 

"  The,  odd  number.  It's  no  more 
the  odd  number,  Pevans,  than  any 
other  number's  odd,  that's  not  even. 
What  do  you  say  to  eleven  ? — what 
do  you  say  to  fifteen  ?" 

"I  can't  explain  it,"  returned  Sir 
John.  "I  only  know  that  the  super- 
stition docs  exist,  and  that  I  have  no- 
ticed, in  more  instances  than  one,  that 
it  has  been  borne  out,  Three  or  four 
parties  who  have  sat  down  to  dinner 
thirteen,  have  lost  one  of  them  before 
the  year  has  come  round.  You  laugh 
at  me,  of  course  ;  I  have  been  laughed 
at  before  ;  but,  suppose  you  notice  it 
now.  We  are  thirteen  of  us  :  see  if 
we  are  all  alive  by  the  end  of  the  year. 

Thomas  Godolphin,  in  his  inmost 
heart,  thought  it  not  unlikely  that  one 
of  them,  at  any  rate,  would  not  be 
there.  Several  faces  were  broad  with 
amusement :  the  most  serious  of  them 
was  Lord  Averil's. 

"  You  don't  believe  in  it,  Averil !" 
uttered  Colonel  Max,  iu  surprise,  as 
he  gazed  at  him. 

"//"  was  the  answer.  "  Certainly 
not.     Why  should  you  ask  it  ?" 

"  You  look  so  grave  over  it." 

"  I  never  like  to  joke,  though  it  be 
but  by  a  smile,  on  the  subject  of 
death,"  replied  Lord  Averil.  "I 
once  received  a  lesson  upon  the  point, 
and  it  will  serve  me  for  my  life." 

"  Will  your  lords\ip  tell  us  what 
it  was  ?"  interposed  Sir  John,  who 
had  been  introduced  to  Lord  Averil 
that  day  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  cannot  tell  it  now,"  replied  Lord 
Averil.  "  It  is  not  a  subject  suited  to 
a  merry  party,"  he  frankly  added. 
"  But  it  would  not  tend  to  bear  out 
your  superstition,  Sir  John  :  you  are 
possibly  thinking  that  it  might." 

"  If  I  have  sat  down  once  thirteen, 
I  have  sat  down  fifty  times,"  cried 
Colonel  Max,  "  and  we  all  lived  the 


year  out,  and  many  a  year  on  to  it. 
I'd  not  mention  such  nonsense  again, 
were  I  you,  Sir  John." 

Sir  John  did  not  answer  for  a  mo- 
ment :  he  was  enjoying  his  first  glass 
of  sparkling  wine.  "  Only  notice, 
that's  all,"  nodded  he.  "  I  don't  want 
to  be  a  croaker,  but  I  don't  like  to  sit 
down  thirteen." 

"  Could  we  not  make  Verrall  the 
scapegoat,  and  invoke  the  evil  to  fall 
on  his  head  ?"  cried  a  mocking  voice. 
"It  is  his  fault." 

"  Sir  John,"  interrupted  another, 
"  how  do  you  calculate  the  time  ?  Is 
the  damage  to  accrue  before  this  veri- 
table year  of  grace  is  out ;  or  do  you 
give  us  full  twelve  months  from  this 
evening  ?" 

"  Ridicule  me  as  much  as  you  like," 
said  Sir  John,  good  humoredly.  "All 
I  say  is,  Notice.  If  every  one  of  us, 
now  sitting  here,  is  alive  this  time 
twelvemonth,  then  I'll  not  put  faith  in 
it  again.     I  hope  we  shall  be  !" 

"  I  hope  we  shall  be,  too,"  acquiesced 
Colonel  Max.  "  You  are  a  social  sub- 
ject, though,  to  invite  to  dinner,  Pev- 
ans !  I  should  fancy  Mr.  George  Go- 
dolphin  is  thinking  so." 

Mr.  George  Godolphin  appeared  to 
be  thinking  of  something  that  rendered 
him  somewhat  distrait.  In  point  of 
fact,  his  duties  as  host  were  consider- 
ably broken  in  upon  by  listening  to 
the  door.  Above  the  conversation, 
the  clatter  of  plates,  the  drawing  of 
corks,  his  ear  was  alive,  hoping  for 
the  knock  which  should  announce  Mr. 
Verrall.  It  was  of  course  strange 
that  he  neither  came  nor  sent.  But 
no  knock  seemed  to  come  :  and  George 
could  onlv  rally  his  powers  and  forget 
Mr.  Verrall. 

It  was  a  recherche  repast.  George 
Godolphin's state  dinners  always  were. 
No  trouble  or  expense  was  spared  at 
them.  Luxuries,  in  season  and  out 
of  season,  would  bo  there.  The  tur- 
tle would  seem  richer  at  his  table  than 
at  any  other,  the  venison  more  than 
venison  ;  the  Moselle  was  of  a  fuller 
flavor,  the  sparkling  hermitage  was  of 
the  rarest  vintage.  The  dinner  this 
day  did  not  disgrace  its  predecessors, 


THE     SHADOW     OF      ASHLYDYAT 


193 


and  the  guests  appeared  to  enjoy 
themselves  to  the  utmost,  in  spite  of 
the  absence  of  Mr.  Verrall,  and  Sir 
John  Pevans's  prognostications  thei-e- 
on. 

The  evening  was  drawing  on,  and 
some  of  the  gentlemen  were  solacing 
themselves  with  a  cup  of  coffee,  when 
the  butler  slipped  a  note  into  his  mas- 
ter's hand.  "  The  man  is  waiting  for 
an  answer,  sir,"  he  whispered. 

George  glided  out  of  the  room, 
opened  the  note,  and  read  it.  So 
fully  impressed  had  he  been  with  the 
conviction  that  it  came  from  Mr. Ver- 
rall, explaining  the  cause  of  his  ab- 
sence, that  he  positively  had  to  read 
it  twice  over  before  he  could  take  in 
the  fact  fully  that  it  was  not  from  Mr. 
Verrall  at  all.  A  very  few  lines  in 
pencil,  dated  from  the  principal  inn 
of  the  place,  and  running  as  follows  : 

"Dear  Godolphin: — I  am  ill  and 
creaky,  and  have  halted  here  mid- 
way in  my  journey,  to  get  a  night's 
rest,  before  going  on  again,  which  I 
must  do  at  six  in  the  morning.  Come 
in  for  half  an  hour,  there's  a  good 
fellow  1  I  don't  know  when  we  may 
meet  again.  The  regiment  embarks 
to-morrow ;  and  it  can't  embark  with- 
out me.  Come  at  once  or  I  shall  be 
gone  to-bed. 

"G.  St.  Aubyn." 

One  burning  desire,  almost  irre- 
pressible, had  hung  over  George  all 
the  evening — that  he  could  run  up  to 
Verrall 's  and  learn  the  cause  of  his 
absence.  Mr.  Verrall's  absence  in 
itself  would  not  in  the  least  have 
troubled  George ;  but  he  had  a  most 
urgent  reason  for  wishing  to  see 
him:  hence  his  anxiety.  To  leave 
his  guests  to  themselves,  and  do  so, 
would  have  been  scarcely  the  thing  : 
but  this  note  appeared  to  afford  just 
the  excuse  wanting.  At  any  rate, 
George  determined  to  make  it  the 
excuse. 

"One  of  the  waiters  brought  this, 
I  suppose,  Pierce  ?"  he  said  to  the 
butler. 

"  Yes,  sir." 
12 


"My  compliments,  and  I  will  be 
with  Captain  St.  Aubyn  directly." 

George  went  into  the  room  again. 
Intending  to  proclaim  his  proposed 
absence,  and  plead  Captain  St.  Aubyn 's 
illness  (which  he  would  put  in  a 
strong  light)  as  his  justification  for 
the  inroad  upon  good  manners.  A 
sudden  thought  came  over  him  that 
he  would  only  tell  Thomas.  Georgu 
drew  him  aside. 

"  Thomas  you'll  be  host  for  me  for 
half  an  hour,"  he  whispered.  "  St. 
Aubyn  has  just  sent  me  an  urgent 
summons  to  go  and  see  him  at  the 
Bell.  He  was  passing  through  Prior's 
Ash,  and  is  forced  to  halt  and  lie  up  : 
very  ill." 

"Won't  to-morrow  morning  do?" 
asked  Thomas. 

"  He  goes  on  at  six.  The  regi- 
ment embarks  to-morrow.  I'll  be 
back  before  they  have  had  time  to 
miss  me.  If  they  do  miss  me,  say  it 
is  a  duty  of  friendship  that  any  one 
of  them  would  have  answered,  as  I 
am  doing,  if  called  upon.  I'll  soon 
be  back." 

Away  he  went  Thomas  felt  un- 
usually well  that  evening,  and  ex- 
erted himself  for  his  brother.  Once 
out  of  the  house,  George  hesitated. 
Should  he  dash  up  to  Lady  Godol- 
phin's  Folly  first,  and  ease  his  mind, 
or  should  he  go  first  to  the  Bell  ? 
The  Bell  was  very  near,  but  in  the 
opposite  direction  to  Ashlydyat.  Ht 
turned  first  to  the  Bell,  and  was  soon 
in  the  presence  of  Captain  St.  Aubyn. 

They  had  been  long  friends,  the 
two :  first  at  school ;  then  at  college : 
and  since,  up  to  now.  St.  Aubyn 
was  of  the  same  county,  but  from  its 
extreme  confines.  George  had  seen 
him  some  days  before,  and  had  then 
wished  him  God  speed.  He  was 
bound  for  Malta. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  sent  for  you." 
exclaimed  Captain  St.  Aubyn,  holding- 
out  his  hand  to  George.  "  I  hear  you 
have  friends  this  evening." 

"  It  is  just  the  kindest  thing  you 
could  have  done  for  me,"  impulsively 
answered  George.  "  I  would  have 
given  a  five-pound   note   out  of  my 


194 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  H  L  Y  D  Y  A  T. 


pocket  for  a  plea  to  be  absent  myself; 
and  your  letter  came  and  afforded  it." 

What  more  he  choose  to  explain 
was  between  themselves  :  it  was  not 
much :  and  in  five  minutes  George 
was  on  his  way  to  Lady  Godolphin's 
Folly.  On  he  strode,  his  eager  legs 
scarcely  touching  the  ground.  He 
lifted  his  hat  and  bared  his  brow,  hot 
with  anxiety,  to  the  night  air.  It  was 
a  very  light  night,  the  moon  high  ;  and, 
as  George  pushed  through  the  dark 
grove  on  the  grounds  of  the  Folly,  he 
saw  Charlotte  Pain  emerge  from  the 
same  at  a  little  distance,  a  dark  shawl, 
or  mantle,  thrown  completely  over  her 
head  and  figure,  apparently  for  the 
purpose  of  disguise  or  concealment. 
Her  face  was  turned  for  a  moment  to- 
wards the  moonlight,  and  there  was 
no  mistaking  the  features  of  Charlotte 
Pain.  Then  she  crouched  down,  and 
sped  along  under  the  friendly  cover 
of  the  trees.  George  hastened  to 
overtake  her. 

But  when  he  got  up  with  her,  as  he 
thought,  there  was  no  Charlotte  there. 
There  was  no  anybody.  Where  had 
she  crept  to  ?  How  had  she  disap- 
peared ?  She  must  have  plunged 
among  the  trees  again.  But  George 
was  in  too  much  haste  then  to  see  Mr. 
Yerrall,  to  puzzle  himself  over  Char- 
lotte. He  crossed  to  the  terrace  and 
rang  at  the  bell. 

Were  the  servants  making  merry? 
He  had  to  ring  again.  A  tolerable 
peal  this  time.  Its  echoes  might  have 
been  heard  at  Ashlydyat. 

"  Is  Mr.  Yerrall  at  home  ?" 

"No,  sir.     Mrs.  Pain  is." 

"Mrs.  Pain  is  not,"  thought  George 
to  himself.  But  he  followed  the  man 
to  the  drawing-room. 

To  his  indescribable  astonishment, 
there  sat  Charlotte,  at  work.  She 
was  in  evening  dress,  her  gown  and 
hair  interlaced  with  jewels.  Calmly 
and  quietly  sat  she,  very  quietly  for 
her,  her  King  Charley  reposing  upon 
a  chair  at  her  side,  fast  asleep.  It 
was  next  to  impossible  to  fancy,  or 
b'dieve,  that  she  could  have  been  out- 
side a  minute  or  two  ago,  scudding 
in  and  out  of  the  trees,  as  if  dodging 


somebody,  perhaps  himself.  And  yet, 
had  it  been  necessary,  George  thought 
he  could  have  sworn  that  the  face  he 
saw  was  the  face  of  Charlotte.  So 
bewildered  did  he  feel,  as  to  be  di- 
verted for  a  moment  from  the  busi-" 
ness  which  had  taken  him  there. 

"  You  may  well  be  surprised !" 
cried  Charlotte,  looking  at  him  ;  and 
George  noticed,  as  she  spoke,  that  she 
was  unusually  pale,  not  a  vestige  of 
color  in  her  cheeks  or  lips.  "  To  see 
me  at  work  is  one  of  the  world's 
wonders.  A  crochet  mat  took  my 
fancy  to-day  in  a  shop,  and  I  bought 
it,  thinking  I'd  make  one  like  it.  In- 
stead of  that,  I  have  managed  to  ravel 
out  the  other." 

She  pointed  on  the  ground  as  she 
spoke.  There,  half  covered  by  her 
dress,  lay  a  heap  of  crinkled-looking 
cotton  ;  no  doubt  the  ravelled-out  mat. 
Charlotte  was  plying  the  needle  again 
with  assiduity,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
pattern  of  instruction  at  her  elbow. 

"  How  very  quickly  you  must  have 
come  in !"  exclaimed  George. 

"  Come  in  from  where,"  asked  Char- 
lotte. 

"  As  I  came  to  the  door,  I  saw  you 
stooping  down  near  the  grove  on  the 
left,  something  dark  over  your  head." 

"  You  fancied  it," said  Charlotte.  "I 
have  not  been  out." 

"  But  I  certainly  did  see  you,"  re- 
peated George.  "I  could  not  be  mis- 
taken. You — were  I  fanciful,  Char- 
lotte, I  should  say  you  were  in  mis- 
chief, and  wanted  to  escape  observa- 
tion. You  were  stooping  down  under 
shade  of  the  trees  and  running  along 
quickly." 

Charlotte  lifted  her  face  and  looked 
at  him  with  wondei'ing  eyes.  "  Are 
you  joking,  or  are  you  in  earnest  ?" 
asked  she. 

"  I  never  was  more  in  earnest  in 
my  life.  I  could  have  staked  my  life 
upon  its  being  you." 

"  Then  I  assure  you  I  have  not  stir- 
red out  of  this  room  since  I  came  into 
it  after  dinner.  What  possessed  me 
to  try  at  this  senseless  work  I  cannot 
tell,"  she  added,  flinging  it  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room  in  a  momenta rv 


TIJE      SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT 


195 


accession  of  temper.  "  It  has  given 
me  the  headache,  and  they  brought 
some  tea  to  me." 

"  You  are  looking  very  pale,"  re- 
marked George. 

"  Am  I  ?  I  don't  often  get  such  a 
headache  as  this.  The  pain  is  here, 
over  my  left  temple.  Bathe  it  for 
me,  will  you,  George  ?" 

A  handkerchief  and  some  eau-de- 
Cologne  were  lying  on  the  table  by 
her.  George  gallantly  undertook  the 
office  :  but  he  could  not  overget  his 
wonder.  "  I'll  tell  you  what,  Char- 
lotte. If  it  was  not  yourself,  it  must 
have  been  your " 

"  It  must  have  been  my  old  blind 
black  dog,"  interrupted  Charlotte. 
"  He  has  a  habit  of  creeping  about 
the  trees  at  night.  There  !  I  am  sure 
that's  near  enough.  I  don't  believe 
it  was  any  thing." 

"Your  double  I  was  going  to  say," 
persisted  George.  "  I  never  saw  your 
face  if  I  did  not  think  I  saw  it  then. 
It  proves  how  mistaken  we  may  be. 
Where's  Yerrall  ?  A  pretty  trick  he 
played  me  this  evening." 

"  What  trick  ?"  repeated  Charlotte. 
"Yerrall's  gone  to  London." 

"  Gone  to  London?"  shouted  George, 
his  tone  one  of  painful  dismay.  "  It 
cannot  be." 

"  It  is,"  said  Charlotte.  "  When  I 
got  in  from  our  ride  I  found  Yerrall 
going  off  by  the  train.  He  had  re- 
ceived a  telegraphic  message,  which 
took  him  up." 

"  Why  did  he  not  call  upon  me  ? 
He  knew — he  knew — the  necessity 
there  was  for  me  to  see  him.  He 
ought  to  have  come." 

"  I  conclude  he  was  in  a  hurry  to 
catch  the  train,"  said  Charlotte. 

"  Why  did  he  not  send  ?" 

"  He  did  send.  I  heard  him  send 
a  verbal  message  by  one  of  the  ser- 
vants, to  the  effect  that  he  was  sum- 
moned unexpectedly  to  London,  and 
could  not,  therefore,  attend  your  din- 
ner. How  early  you  have  broken 
up!" 

"We  have  not  broken  up.  I  left 
my  guests  to  see  after  Yerrall.  No 
message  was  brought  to  me." 


"Then  I  will  inquire,"  began  Char- 
lotte, rising.  George  gently  pushed 
her  back. 

"  It  is  of  little  consequecce,"  he 
said.  "  It  might  have  saved  me  some 
suspense ;  but  I  am  glad  I  got  the 
dinner  over  without  knowing  it.  I 
rmist  see  Yerrall." 

Charlotte  carried  her  point,  and 
rang  the  bell.  "  If  you  are  glad, 
George,  it  is  no  extenuation  for  the 
negligence  of  the  servants.  They  may 
be  forgetting  some  message  of  more 
importance  if  they  are  left  unreproved 
now." 

But,  forgotten,  the  message  had 
not  been.  The  servant,  it  appeared, 
had  misunderstood  his  master,  and 
carried  the  message  to  Ashlydyat,  in- 
stead of  to  the  bank. 

"  How  very  stupid  he  must  have 
been  !"  uttered  Charlotte  to  George, 
when  the  explanation  had  been  arrived 
at.  "  Sometimes  I  think  servants  have 
but  half  their  share  of  brains." 

"  Charlotte,  I  must  see  Verrall.  I 
had  a  letter  this  evening  from  Lon- 
don which  I  ought  to  have  had  yes- 
terday, and  it  has  driven  me  to  my 
wits'  end." 

"  About  the  old  business  ?"  ques- 
tioned Charlotte. 

"  Just  so.     Look  here." 

He  took  the  letter  from  his  pocket, — 
the  letter  brought  back  to  him  by  Isaac 
Hastings,  and  which  he  had  assured 
Maria  had  not  contained  bad  news, — 
opened  it,  and  handed  it  to  Charlotte 
for  her  perusal.  Better,  possibly,  for 
Mr.  George  Godolphin  that  he  had 
made  a  bosom  friend  of  his  wife 
than  of  Charlotte  Pain  1  Better  for 
gentlemen  in  general,  it  may  be,  that 
they  should  tell  their  secrets  to  their 
wives  than  to  their  wives'  rivals, — 
however  comprehensive  the  fascina- 
tions of  these  latter  ladies  may  be. 
George,  however,  made  his  own  bed, 
as  we  all  do ;  and  George  would  have 
to  lie  upon  it. 

"  What  am  I  to  do,  Charlotte  ?" 

Charlotte  sat  bending  over  the  note, 
and  pressing  her  forehead.  Her  look 
was  one  of  perplexity, — perplexity 
great  as  George's. 


196 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


"  It  is  a  dangerous  position,"  she 
said  at  length.     "  If  not  averted •" 

She  came  to  a  dead  pause,  and  their 
eyes  met. 

"  Ay  1"  he  repeated,  —  "if  not 
averted  !  Nothing  would  remain  for 
me  but " 

"  Hush,  George,"  said  she,  laying 
her  hand  upon  his  lips,  and  then  let- 
ting it  fall  upon  his  hand,  where  it 
remained. 

There  they  sat,  it  is  hard  to  say 
how  long,  heads  together,  talking  ear- 
nestly. Charlotte  was  in  his  full  con- 
fidence. Whatever  may  have  been 
the  nature,  the  depth  of  his  per- 
plexities, she  fathomed  them.  At 
length  George  sprung  up  with  a  start. 

"  I  am  forgetting  every  thing  !  I 
forgot  those  people  were  at  home, 
waiting  for  me.  Charlotte,  I  must 
go." 

She  rose,  put  her  arm  within  his, 
and  took  a  step  with  him,  as  if  she 
would  go  to  let  him  out.  Perhaps 
she  was  in  the  habit  of  letting  him 
out. 

"  Not  there  !  not  that  way  !"  she 
abruptly  said,  for  George  was  turning 
to  unclose  the  shutter  of  the  window. 
"  Come  into  the  next  room,  and  I'll 
open  that." 

The  next  room  was  dark.  They 
opened  the  window,  and  stood  yet  a 
minute  within  the  room,  talking  anx- 
iously still.  Then  he  quitted  her,  and 
went  forth. 

He  intended  to  take  the  lonely  road 
homewards,  that  dark,  narrow  road 
you  may  remember  to  have  heard  of, 
where  the  ash-trees  met  overhead, 
and,  as  report  went,  a  ghost  was  in 
the  habit  of  taking  walking  exercise 
by  night.  George  had  no  thoughts 
for  ghosts  just  then :  he  had  a  "ghost" 
within  him,  frightful  enough  to  scare 
away  a  whole  lane  full.  Nevertheless, 
George  Godolphin  did  take  a  step 
back  with  a  start,  when,  just  inside 
the  Ash-tree  walk,  after  passing  the 
turnstile,  there  came  a  dismal  groan 
from  some  dark  figure  seated  on  a 
broken  bench. 

It  was  all  dark  together  there.  The 
thick  ash-trees  hid  the  moon ;  George 


had  just  emerged  from  where  her 
beams  shone  bright  and  open ;  and 
not  at  first  did  he  distinguish  who  it 
was,  sitting  there.  But  his  eyes  grew 
accustomed  to  the  obscurity. 

"  Thomas  !"  he  uttered  in  conster- 
nation.    "Is  it  you  ?" 

For  answer,  Thomas  Godolphin 
caught  hold  of  his  brother,  bent  for- 
ward, and  laid  his  forehead  upon 
George's  arm,  another  deep  groan 
breaking  from  him. 

That  George  Godolphin  would 
rather  have  been  waylaid  by  a  real 
ghost,  than  by  his  brother  at  that  par- 
ticular time  and  place,  was  certain. 
It  may  be  very  charming  to  a  school- 
boy to  steal  cherry-pudding,  but  it's 
not  pleasant  to  be  caught  coming  out 
of  the  pantry  by  the  master.  Better 
that  the  whole  world  should  detect 
any  undue  anxiety  for  Mr.Verrall's 
companionship  just  then,  than  that 
Thomas  Godolphin  should.  At  least, 
George  thought  so :  but  conscience 
makes  the  best  of  us  cowards.  Nev- 
ertheless, he  gave  his  earnest  sympa- 
thy to  his  brother. 

"  Lean  on  me,  Thomas.  Let  me 
support  you.  How  have  you  been 
taken  ill  ?" 

Another  minute,  and  the  paroxysm 
of  pain  was  past.  Thomas  wiped  the 
dew  from  his  brow,  and  George  sat 
down  on  the  narrow  bench  beside 
him. 

"  How  came  you  to  be  here  alone, 
Thomas  ?     Where  is  your  carriage  V 

"  I  ordered  the  carriage  early,  and 
it  came  just  as  you  had  gone  out,"  ex- 
plained Thomas.  "  Feeling  well,  I 
sent  it  away,  saying  I  would  walk 
home.  The  pain  overtook  me  just  as 
I  reached  this  spot,  and  but  for  the 
bench  I  should  have  fallen.  But, 
George,  what  brings  you  here  ?"  was 
the  next  very  natural  question.  "  You 
told  me  you  were  going  to  the  Bell." 

"  So  I  was  ;  so  I  did,"  said  George, 
speaking  volubly.  "  St.  Aubyn  I 
found  very  poorly :  I  told  him  he 
would  be  best  in  bed,  and  came  away. 
It  was  a  nice  night;  I  felt  inclined 
for  a  run ;  so  I  came  up  here  to  ask 
Vervall   what   had   kept   him    away. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


197 


He  was  sent  for  to  London,  it  seems, 
and  the  stupid  servant  took  bis  apol- 
ogy to  Ashlydyat,  instead  of  to  the 
bank." 

Thomas  Godolphin  might  well  have 
rejoined,  "  If  Verrall  is  away,  where 
have  you  stopped  ?"  but  he  made  no 
remark. 

"Are  they  all  gone  ?"  asked  George, 
alluding  to  his  guests. 

"  They  are  all  gone.  I  made  it 
right  with  them  respecting  your  ab- 
sence. My  being  there  was  almost 
the  same  thing :  they  appeared  to  re- 
gard it  so.  George,  I  believe  I  must 
have  your  arm  as  far  as  the  house. 
See  what  an  old  man  I  am  getting." 

"  Will  you  not  rest  louger  ?  I  am 
in  no  hurry,  as  they  have  gone.  What 
can  this  pain  be,  that  seems  to  be  at- 
tacking you  of  late  ?" 

"  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  what 
it  may  be  ?"  quietly  rejoined  Thomas. 

"  No,"  replied  George.  But  he  no- 
ticed that  Thomas's  tone  was  a  pecu- 
liar one,  and  he  began  to  run  over  in 
his  own  mind  all  the  pharmacopoeia 
of  ailments  that  flesh  is  heir  to. 
"  It  cannot  be  rheumatism,  can  it, 
Thomas  ?" 

"  It  is  something  worse  than  rheu- 
matism," said  Thomas,  in  his  serene, 
ever-thoughtful  tone.  "  A  short  while, 
George,  and  you  will  be  master  of 
Ashlydyat." 

George's  heart  seemed  to  stand  still, 
and  then  bound  onwards  in  a  tumult. 
The  words  struck  upon  every  chord 
of  feeling  he  possessed, — struck  from 
more  causes  than  one. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Thomas  ? 
What  do  you  fear  may  be  the  matter 
with  }rou  ?" 

"  Do  you  remember  what  killed  our 
mother  ?" 

There  was  a  painful  pause.  "  Oh, 
Thomas  !" 

"  It  is  so,"  said  Thomas,  quietly. 

"  I  hope  you  are  mistaken  !  I  hope 
you  are  mistaken  !"  reiterated  George. 
"  Have  you  had  advice  ?  You  must 
have  advice." 

"  I  have  had  it.  Snow  confirms  my 
own  suspicions.     I  desired  the  truth." 

"Who's  Snow?"  returned  George, 


disparagingly.  "Go  to  London, 
Thomas  :  consult  the  best  men  there. 
Or  telegraph  for  one  of  them  down  to 
you." 

"  For  the  satisfaction  of  you  all,  I 
may  do  so,"  he  replied.  "  But  it  can- 
not benefit  me,  George." 

"  Good  Heavens,  what  a  dreadful 
thing !"  uttered  George,  with  feeling. 
"What  a  blow  to  fall  upon  }rou  !" 

"  You  would  regard  it  so,  were  it  to 
fall  upon  you ;  and  naturally.  You 
are  young,  joyous ;  you  have  your 
wife  and  children.  I  have  none  of 
these  attributes  :  and — if  I  had  them 
all,  we  are  in  the  hands  of  One  who 
knows  what  is  best." 

George  Godolphin  did  not  feel  very 
joyous  just  then  :  had  not  felt  particu- 
larly joyous  for  a  long  time.  Some- 
how, his  own  inward  care  was  more 
palpable  to  him  than  this  news,  sad 
though  it  was,  imparted  by  his  brother. 
He  lifted  his  right  hand  to  his  temples 
and  kept  it  there.  Thomas  suffered 
his  own  hand  to  fall  upon  George's 
left,  which  rested  on  his  knee, — a 
more  holy  contact  than  that  imparted 
by  Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain's. 

"  Don't  grieve,  George.  I  am  more 
than  resigned.  I  think  of  it  as  a 
happy  change.  This  world,  take  it  at 
the  best,  is  full  of  care :  if  we  seem 
free  from  it  one  year,  it  only  falls  up- 
on us  more  unsparingly  the  next.  It 
is  wisely  ordered:  were  the  world 
made  too  pleasant  to  us,  we  might  be 
wishing  that  it  could  be  our  perma- 
nent home." 

Heaven  knew  that  George  had 
enough  care  upon  him.  He  knew  it. 
But  he  was  not  yet  weary  of  the  world. 
Few  do  weary  of  it,  whatever  may  be 
their  care,  until  they  have  learned  to 
look  for  a  better. 

"  In  the  days  gone  by,  I  have  felt 
tempted  to  wonder  why  Ethel  should 
have  been  taken,"  resumed  Thomas 
Godolphin.  "  I  see  now  how  merci- 
ful the  fiat  was.  George,  I  have  been 
more  thoughtfully  observant,  perhaps, 
than  many  are  ;  and  I  have  learnt  to 
see,  to  know,  how  marvellously  all 
these  fiats  are  fraught  with  mercy ; 
full  of  dark  sorrow  as  they  may  seem 


198 


THE     SHADOW     OF     ASHLYDYAT, 


to  us.  It  would  have  been  a  bitter 
trial  to  me  to  leave  her  here  unpro- 
tected ;  in  deep  sorrow  ;  perhaps  with 
young  children.  I  scarcely  think  I 
could  have  been  reconciled  to  go  ;  and 
I  know  what  her  grief  would  have 
been.     All's  for  the  best." 

Most  rare  was  it  for  undemonstra- 
tive Thomas  Godolphin  thus  to  ex- 
press his  hidden  sentiments.  George 
never  knew  him  to  do  so  before.  The 
time  and  place  were  peculiarly  fitted 
for  it:  the  still,  light  night,  telling  of 
peacefulness ;  the  shady  trees  around, 
the  blue  sky  overhead.  In  these  par- 
oxysms of  the  disease,  Thomas  felt 
brought  almost  face  to  face  with 
death. 

"  It  will  be  a  blow  to  Janet  I"  ex- 
claimed George,  the  thought  striking 
him. 

"  She  will  feel  it  as  one." 

"  Thomas  !  can  nothing  be  done  for 
you  ?"  was  the  impulsive  rejoinder, 
spoken  in  all  hearty  good  feeling. 

"  Could  it  be  done  for  my  mother, 
George  ?" 

"  I  know.  But,  since  then,  science 
has  made  strides.  Diseases,  once 
deemed  incurable,  yield  now  to  skill 
and  enlightenment.  I  wish  you  would 
go  to  London  !" 

"  There  are  some  few  diseases  which 
bring  death  with  them,  in  spite  of 
human  skill, — which  will  bring  it  to 
the  end  of  time,"  rejoined  Thomas 
Godolphin.     "  This  is  one." 

"  Well,  Thomas,  you  have  given 
me  my  pill  for  to-night, — and  for  a 
great  many  more  nights  and  days 
too.  I  wish  I  had  not  heard  it !  But 
that,  you  will  say,  is  a  wish  savoring- 
only  of  selfishness.  It  is  a  dreadful 
affliction  for  you  ! — Thomas,  I  must 
say  it, — a  dreadful  affliction." 

"  The  disease,  or  the  ending,  do  you 
mean  ?"  Thomas  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"  Both  are.  But  I  spoke  more  par- 
ticularly of  the  disease.  The  disease 
in  itself  is  a  lingering  death,  and 
nothing  better." 

"  A  lingering  death  is  the  most  fa- 
vored death, — as  I  regard  it :  a  sud- 
den death  the  most  unhappy  one. 
See  what  time  is  given  me  to  '  set  my 


house  in  order,'  "  he  added,  the  sober, 
pleasant  smile  deepening.  "  I  must 
not  fail  to  do  it  well,  must  I  ?" 

"  And  the  pain,  Thomas  !  That 
will  be  lingering,  too." 

"  I  must  bear  it." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  put  his 
arm  within  his  brother's.  George 
seemed  to  him  then  the  same  power- 
ful protector  that  he,  Thomas,  must 
have  seemed  to  Sir  George  in  that 
midnight  walk  at  Broom  head.  He 
stood  a  minute  or  two,  as  if  gathering 
his  strength,  and  then  walked  forward, 
leaning  heavily  on  George.  It  was 
the  pain,  the  excessive  agony  that  so 
unnerved  him, — a  little  while,  and  he 
would  seem  in  the  possession  of  his 
strength  again. 

"Ay,  George,  it  will  soon  be  yours. 
I  shall  not  long  keep  you  out  of  Ash- 
lydyat.  I  cannot  quite  tell  how  you 
will  manage  alone  at  the  bank  when 
I  am  gone,"  he  continued,  more  in  a 
business  tone.  "  I  think  of  it  a  great 
deal.  Sometimes  I  fancy  it  might  be 
better  if  you  took  a  staid,  sober  part- 
ner,— one  of  middle  age,  a  thorough 
man  of  business.  Great  confidence  has 
been  accorded  me,  you  know,  George. 
I  suppose  people  like  my  steady 
habits." 

"  They  like  you  for  your  honest  in- 
tegrity," returned  George,  the  words 
seeming  to  break  from  him  impul- 
sively. "  I  shall  manage  very  well, 
I  dare  say,  when  the  time  comes.  I 
suppose  I  must  settle  down  to  steadi- 
ness,— to  be  more  like  you  have  been. 
I  can,"  he  continued,  in  a  sort  of  solil- 
oquy.    "  I  can,  and  I  will." 

"  And  George,  you  will  be  a  good 
master,"  went  on  Thomas.  "  Be  a 
kind,  considerate,  good  master  to  all 
who  shall  then  be  dependent  on  you. 
I  have  tried  to  be  so  :  and,  now  that 
the  end  has  come,  it  is,  I  assure  you, 
a  pleasant  consciousness  to  possess, — 
to  look  ba'.'k  upon.  I  have  a  few, 
very  few  poor  pensioners  who  may 
have  been  a  little  the  better  for  me  : 
those  I  shall  take  care  of,  and  Janet 
will  sometimes  see  them.  But  some 
of  the  servants  lapse  to  you  with  Ash- 
lydyat :  I  speak  of  them.    Mako  them 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


199 


comfortable.  Most  of  them  are  al- 
ready in  years :  take  care  of  them 
when  they  shall  be  too  old  to  work." 

"Oh,  I'll  do  that,"  said  George. 
"  I  expect  Ja " 

George's  words  died  away.  They 
had  turned  round  the  ash-trees,  and 
were  in  front  of  the  Dark  Plain. 
White  enough  looked  the  plain  that 
night ;  but  dark  was  the  Shadow  on 
it.  Yes,  it  was  there  ! — the  dark,  the 
portentous,  the  terrific  Shadow  of 
Ashlydyat ! 

They  stood  still.  Perhaps  their 
hearts  stood  still.  Who  can  know  ? 
A  man  would  rather  confess  to  an  un- 
holy deed  than  acknowledge  his  be- 
lief in  a  ghostly  superstition. 

"  How  dark  it  is  to-night !"  broke 
from  George. 

In  truth,  it  had  never  been  darker, 
never  more  intensely  distinct.  Tf,  as 
the  popular  belief  went,  the  evil  to 
overtake  the  Godolphins  was  fore- 
shadowed to  be  greater  or  less,  ac- 
cording to  the  darker  or  lighter  hue  of 
the  Shadow,  why  then  never  did  the 
like  ill  fall  on  the  Godolphins  that  was 
to  fall  now. 

"  It  is  black,  not  dark,"  replied 
Thomas,  in  answer  to  George's  re- 
mark. "  I  never  saw  it  black  as  it  is 
now.  Last  night  it  wTas  compara- 
tively light." 

George  turned  his  gaze  quickly  up- 
wards to  the  moon, — searching  in  the 
aspect  of  that  luminary  a  solution  of 
the  black  shade  of  to-night.  "  There's 
no  difference  !"  he  cried  aloud.  "  The 
moon  was  as  bright  as  this,  last  night, 
but  no  brighter.  I  don't  think  it  could 
be  brighter.  You  say  the  Shadow 
was  there  last  night,  Thomas  ?" 

"  Yes, — but  not  so  dark." 

"  But,  Thomas  !  you  were  ill  last 
night ;  you  could  not  see  it." 

"  I  came  as  far  as  the  turnstile  here 
with  Lord  Averil.  He  called  at  Ash- 
dyat  after  leaving  Lady  Godolphin's 
Folly.  I  was  better  then,  and  strolled 
out  of  the  house  with  him." 

"  Did  he  see  the  Shadow  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  It  was  there;  but 
not  very  distinct.  He  did  not  ap- 
pear to  observe  it.     We  were  passing 


quickly,  and  talking  about  my  ill- 
ness." 

"  Did  you  impart  to  Lord  Averil 
any  hint  of  what  your  illness  may 
be  ?"  asked  George,  hastily. 

"  Not  an  indication  of  it.  Janet, 
Snow,  and  you  are  my  only  confidants 
as  yet.  Bexley  partially  so.  Were 
that  Shadow  to  be  seen  by  Prior's 
Ash,  and  the  fact  of  my  illness  to 
transpire,  people  would  be  for  saying 
that  it  was  a  forewarning  of  my  end," 
he  continued,  with  a  grave  smile,  as 
he  and  George  turned  to  pursue  their 
road  to  Ashlydyat. 

They  reached  the  porch  in  silence. 
George  shook  hands  with  his  brother. 
"  Don't  you  attempt  to  come  to  busi- 
ness to-morrow,"  he  said.  "  I  will 
come  up  in  the  evening  and  see 
you. " 

"  Won't  you  come  in  now,  George  ?" 

"  Not  so.  Good-night,  Thomas.  I 
heartily  wish  you  better." 

George  turned  and  retraced  his 
steps, — past  the  ash-trees,  past  the 
Dark  Plain.  Intensely  black  the 
Shadow  did  certainly  look, — blacker 
even  than  when  he  had  passed  it  just 
before, — at  least  so  it  appeared  to 
George's  eyes.  He  halted  a  moment, 
quite  struck  with  the  sombre  hue. 
"  Thomas  said  it  appeared  but  light 
last  night,"  he  half  muttered  :  "  and 
for  him  death  cannot  be  much  of  an 
evil.  Superstitious  Janet,  daft  Mar- 
gery, would  both  say  that  the  evil 
affects  me, — that  I  am  to  bring  it !" 
he  added,  with  a  smile  of  mockery  at 
the  words.  "  Angry  enough  it  cer- 
tainly looks  I" 

It  did  look  angry.  But  George 
vouchsafed  it  no  further  attention. 
He  had  too  much  on  his  mind  to  give 
heed  to  a  shadow,  even  though  it 
were  the  ominous  Shadow  of  Ashly- 
dyat. George,  as  he  had  said  to  Char- 
lotte Pain,  was  pretty  near  at  his  wits' 
end.  One  of  his  minor  perplexities 
was,  how  he  should  get  to  London. 
He  had  urgent  necessity  for  proceed- 
ing thither  in  search  of  Mr.  Verrall, 
and  equally  urgent  was  it  that  the 
expedition  should  be  kept  from  the 
knowledge     of    Thomas     Godolphiu. 


200 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


What  convenient  excuse  could  he  in- 
vent for  his  absence  ? 

Rapidly  arranging  his  plans,  he 
proceeded  again  to  the  Bell  Inn,  held 
a  few  minutes'  confidential  conversa- 
tion with  Captain  St.  Aubyn,  waking 
that  gentleman  out  of  his  first  sleep 
to  hold  it, — not  that  he  by  any  means 
enlightened  him  as  to  any  trouble  that 
might  be  running  riot  with  his  brain, 
— and  then  went  straight  home.  Ma- 
ria came  forward  to  meet  him. 

"  How  is  poor  Captain  St.  Aubyn, 
George  ?     Very  ill  ?" 

"  Very.  How  did  you  know  any 
thing  about  it,.  Maria  ?" 

"  Thomas  told  me  you  had  been 
sent  for.  Thomas  came  to  my  sitting- 
room  before  he  left,  after  the  rest  were 
gone.  You  have  stayed  a  good  while 
with  him." 

"Ay.  What  should  you  say  if  I 
were  to  go  back  and  stop  the  night 
with  him?"  asked  George,  half  jok- 
ingly. 

"  Is  he  so  ill  as  that  ?" 

"  And  also  to  accompany  him  a 
stage  or  two  on  his  journey  to-morrow 
morning  ?  He  starts  at  six,  and  he 
is  about  as  fit  to  travel  as  an  invalid 
first  out  of  bed  after  a  month's  ill- 
ness. " 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that  you  are 
going  to  do  all  that,  George  ?"  she  in- 
quired, in  surprise. 

George  nodded.  "I  do  not  fancy 
Thomas  will  be  here  to-morrow,  Maria. 
Ask  to  speak  to  Isaac.  Tell  him  that 
I  shall  be  home  some  time  in  the  after- 
noon, but  I  have  gone  out  of  town  a 
few  miles  with  a  sick  friend.  He  can 
say  so  if  I  am  particularly  inquired 
for." 

George  went  to  his  bedroom.  Ma- 
ria followed  him.  He  was  changing 
his  dresscoat  and  waistcoat,  and  he 
took  an  overcoat  upon  his  arm.  Then 
he  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  What  is  the  time  ?"  asked  Maria. 

"  Twenty  minutes  past  eleven. 
Good-night,  my  darling." 

She  fondly  held  his  face  down  to 


hers  while  he  kissed  her,  giving  him 
— as  George  had  once  saucily  told  her 
she  would  do — kiss  for  kiss.  There 
was  no  shame  in  it  now ;  only  love. 
"  Oh,  George,  my  dearest,  mind 
you  come  back  safe  and  well  to 
me  !"  she  murmured,  the  tears  filling 
her  eyes. 

"  Don't  I  always  come  back  safe  and 
well  to  you,  you  foolish  child  !  Take 
care  of  yourself,  Maria." 

He  went  down-stairs,  unlocked  the 
large  door  which  shut  in  the  bank 
premises,  and  entered  the  manager's 
room, — his  own.  Unlocking  his  desk, 
he  took  from  it  one  or  two  things  that 
he  required,  and  was  relocking  it  when 
Maria  came  in. 

"  I  found  this  on  the  floor  of  our 
room,  George.  I  think  you  must 
have  dropped  it." 

It  was  the  letter  which  had  caused 
George  such  tribulation.  "Thank 
you,"  he  said  eagerly,  wondering  at 
his  carelessness  ;  for  it  would  not  have 
been  altogether  agreeable  had  that 
letter  been  found  and  read  by  indis- 
criminate people.  In  changing  some 
things  from  one  coat  to  the  other,  he 
must  have  dropped  it. 

"  Must  you  really  go,  George  ?" 

"  And  this  minute,  too.  Once  more, 
goocl-by,  my  clearest." 

Their  last  farewell,  their  last  kiss 
was  taken,  Maria's  hand  lingering  in 
his.  Could  she  have  divined  that  Mr. 
George's  tender  adieux  sometimes 
strayed  elsewhere  ! — that  his  confi- 
dences were  given,  but  not  to  her  ! 
George  locked  the  door,  and  Maria 
took  the  key,  to  deposit  in  its  place. 
He  then  went  out  at  the  hall-door,  and 
closed  it  after  him. 

It  was  well  Maria  did  not  watch 
him  away !  Well  for  her  astonish- 
ment. Instead  of  going  to  the  Bell 
Inn,  he  turned  short  round  to  the  left, 
and  took  the  cross-cut  which  led  to 
the  railway, — gaining  the  station  in 
time  to  catch  the  express  train,  which 
passed  through  Prior's  Ash  at  mid- 
night for  London. 


THE      SHADOW     OP     ASHLYDYAT, 


201 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

MR.  VERRALL'S   CHAMBERS. 

In  thoroughly  handsome  chambers 
towards  the  west  end  of  London,  fitted 
up  with  a  costly  elegance  more  in  ac- 
cordance (one  would  think)  with  a 
place  consecrated  to  the  refinements 
of  life  than  to  business,  there  sat  one 
morning  a  dark  gentleman,  of  most 
staid  and  respectable  appearance.  To 
look  at  his  clean,  smoothly-shaven 
face,  his  gray  hair,  his  gold-rimmed 
spectacles,  his  staid  appearance  alto- 
gether, every  item  of  which  carried 
respectability  with  it,  you  might  have 
trusted  the  man  at  the  first  glance.  In 
point  of  fact,  he  was  got  up  to  be 
•trusted.  A  fire  was  pleasant  on  those 
spring  mornings,  and  a  large  and  clear 
one  burnt  in  the  burnished  grate. 
Miniature  statues,  and  other  articles 
possessing,  one  must  suppose,  some 
rare  excellence,  gave  to  the  room  an 
artistic  look  :  and  the  venerable  gen- 
tleman (venerable  in  staid  respecta- 
bility, you  must  understand,  more  than 
from  age,  for  his  years  were  barely 
fifty)  sat  enjoying  its  blaze,  and  culling 
choice  morsels  from  the  Times.  The 
money  article,  the  prices  of  stock,  a 
large  insolvency  case,  and  other  news, 
especially  acceptable  to  men  of  busi- 
ness, being  eagerly  read  by  him. 

An  architect  might  go  and  take  a 
model  of  these  chambers,  so  artistic- 
ally were  they  arranged.  A  client 
could  pass  into  any  one  of  the  three 
rooms,  and  not  come  out  by  the  same 
door ;  he  might  go  up  to  them  by  the 
wide  and  handsome  staircase,  and  des- 
cend by  means  of  a  ladder,  and  emerge 
in  a  back  street.  Not  altogether  a 
ladder,  literally  speaking ;  but  by  a 
staircase  so  narrow  as  to  deserve  the 
name.  It  did  happen,  once  in  a  way, 
that  a  gentleman  might  prefer  that 
means  of  exit,  even  if  he  did  not  of 
entrance.  These  chambers  were — not 
to  keep  you  longer  in  suspense — the 
offices  of  the  great  bill-discounting 
firm,  Trueworthy  and  Co. 

One  peculiar  feature  in  their  inter- 
nal economy  was.  that  no  client  ever 


got  to  see  Mr.  Trueworthy.  lie  was 
too  great  a  man  to  stoop  to  business 
in  his  own  proper  person  :  he  was 
taking  his  pleasure  in  the  East ;  or  he 
was  on  a  visit  to  some  foreign  court, 
the  especial  guest  of  its  imperial  head ; 
or  sojourning  with  his  bosom  friend 
the  Duke  of  Dorsetshire  at  his  shoot- 
ing-box ;  or  reposing  at  his  own  coun- 
try-seat ;  or  ill  in  bed  with  the  gout : 
for  one  or  other  of  these  contingencies 
Mr.  Trueworthy  was  invariably  invis- 
ible. It  happened  now  and  then  that 
there  was  a  disturbance  in  these  ele- 
gant chambers,  caused  by  some  ill- 
bred  and  ill-advised  gentleman,  who 
persisted  in  saying  that  he  had  been 
treated  hardly, — in  point  of  fact,  ru- 
ined. One  or  two  had,  on  these  oc- 
casions broadly  asserted  their  convic- 
tion that  there  was  no  Mr.  Truewor- 
thy :  but  of  course  their  ravings, 
whether  on  the  score  of  their  own 
wrongs,  or  on  the  non-existence  of 
that  estimable  gentleman,  whose  fash- 
ionable movements  might  have  filled 
a  weekly  column  of  the  Court  Circu- 
lar, were  taken  for  what  they  were 
worth. 

In  the  years  gone  by — but  a  very 
few  years,  though — ttie  firm  had  owned 
another  head, — at  any  rate,  another 
name.  A  young  and  fair  man,  who 
had  disdained  the  exclusiveness  adopt- 
ed by  his  successor,  and  deemed  him- 
self not  too  great  a  mortal  to  be  seen 
of  men.  This  unfortunate  principal 
had  managed  his  affairs  very  badly. 
In  some  way  or  other,  he  came  to 
grief.  Perhaps  the  blame  lay  in  his 
youth.  Somebody  was  so  wicked  as 
to  prefer  against  him  a  charge  of 
swindling ;  and  ill-natured  tongues 
said  it  would  go  hard  with  him, — fif- 
teen years  at  least.  What  they  meant 
by  the  last  phrase,  they  best  knew. 
Like  many  another  charge,  it  never 
came  to  any  thing.  The  very  hour 
before  he  would  have  been  captured, 
he  made  his  escape,  and  never  since 
had  been  seen  or  heard  of.  Some  sur- 
mised that  he  was  dead,  some  that  he 
was  in  hiding  abroad  :  only  one  thing 
was  certain  ;  that  into  this  country  he 
could  not  again  enter. 


202 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


All  that,  however,  was  past  and 
gone.  The  gentleman,  Mr.  Bronip- 
ton,  sitting  at  his  ease  over  his  news- 
paper, his  legs  stretched  out  to  the 
blaze,  was  the  confidential  manager 
and  head  of  the  office  :  half  the  appli- 
cants did  not  know  but  he  was  the 
principal :  strangers,  at  first,  invaria- 
bly believed  that  he  was.  A  lower 
satellite,  a  clerk,  or  whatever  he  might 
be,  sat  in  an  outer  room  and  bowed  in 
the  clients,  his  bow  showing  far  more 
deference  to  this  gentleman  than  to 
the  clients  themselves.  How  could 
they  suppose  that  he  was  any  thing 
less  than  the  principal  ? 

On  this  morning,  there  went  up  the 
broad  staircase  a  gentleman  whose  re- 
markable good  looks  drew  the  eyes  of 
the  passers-by  towards  him,  as  he  got 
out  of  the  cab  which  brought  him. 
The  clerk  took  a  hasty  step  forward, 
to  impede  his  progress,  for  the  gentle- 
man was  crossing  the  office  with  a 
bold  step  :  and  all  steps  might  not  be 
admitted  to  that  inner  room.  The 
gentleman,  however,  put  up  his  hand, 
as  if  to  say,  Don't  you  know  me  ?  and 
went  on.  The  clerk,  who  at  the  first 
moment  had  probably  not  had  time  to 
recognize  him,  threw  open  the  inner 
door. 

"Mr.  George  Godolphin,  sir." 

Mr.  George  Godolphin  strode  on. 
He  was  evidently  not  on  familiar  terms 
with  the  gentleman,  who  rose  to  re- 
ceive him,  for  he  did  not  shake  hands. 
His  tone  and  manner  were  courteous. 

"Is  Mr.Verrall  here?" 

"  He  is  not  here,  Mr.  Godolphin.  I 
am  not  sure  that  he  will  be  here  to- 
day." 

"  I  must  see  him,"  said  George, 
firmly.  "  I  have  followed  him  to  town 
to  see  him.  You  know  that  he  came 
up  yesterday  ?" 

"  Yes.     I  met  him  last  night." 

"I  should  suppose,  as  he  was  sent 
for  unexpectedly — which  I  hear  was 
the  case — that  he  was  sent  for  on  busi- 
ness ;  and  therefore  that  he  would  be 
here  to-day,"  pursued  George. 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  it.  He  left  it  an 
open  question." 

George    looked    uncommonly   per- 


plexed. "  I  must  see  him,  and  I  must 
be  back  at  Prior's  Ash  during  business 
hours  to-day.  I  want  to  catch  the 
eleven  down-train  if  I  can." 

"  Can  I  do  for  you  as  well  as  Mr. 
Verrall  ?"  asked  Mr.  Brompton,  after 
a  pause. 

"  No,  you  can't.  Verrall  I  must 
see.  It  is  very  strange  you  don't 
know  whether  he  is  to  be  here,  or 
not." 

"  It  happens  to-day  that  I  do  not 
know.  Mr.  Verrall  left  it  last  night, 
I  say,  an  open  question. 

"It  is  the  loss  of  time  that  I  am 
thinking  of,"  returned  George.  "You 
see,  if  I  go  down  now  to  his  residence, 
he  may  have  left  it  to  come  up;  and 
we  should  just  miss  each  other." 

"  Very  true,"  assented  Mr.  Bromp- 
ton. 

George  stood  a  moment  in  thought, 
and  then  turned  on  his  heel,  and  de- 
parted. "  Do  you  know  whether  Mr. 
Verrall  will  be  up  this  morning  ?"  he 
asked  of  the  clerk,  as  he  passed  through 
the  outer  room. 

The  clerk  shook  his  head.  "  I  am 
unable  to  say,  sir." 

George  went  down  to  the  cab,  and 
entered  it.  Where  to,  sir  ?"  asked  the 
driver,  as  he  closed  the  door. 

"The  South-Western  Railway." 

As  the  echo  of  George's  footsteps 
died  away  on  the  stairs,  Mr.  Bromp- 
ton, first  slipping  the  bolt  of  the  door 
which  led  into  the  clerk's  room,  opened 
the  door  of  another  room, — a  double 
door,  thoroughly  well  padded,  dead- 
ening all  semblance  of  sound  between 
the  apartments.  It  was  a  larger  and 
more  luxurious  room  still.  Two  gen- 
tlemen were  seated  in  it,  by  a  similar 
bright  fire  :  though,  to  look  at  the  face 
of  the  one — a  young  man,  whose  hand- 
kerchief, as  it  lay  carelessly  on  the 
table  beside  him,  bore  a  viscount's 
coronet — nobody  would  have  thought 
the  fire  was  needed.  His  face  was  of 
a  glowing  red,  and  he  was  talking  in 
angry  excitement,  but  with  a  tone  and 
manner  somewhat  subdued,  as  if  he 
were  in  the  presence  of  a  master,  and 
dared  not  put  forth  his  mettle.  In 
short,  he  looked  something  like  a  caged 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASIILYDYA  T . 


203 


lion.  Opposite  to  him,  listening  with 
cold,  imperturbable  courtesy,  his  face 
utterly  impassive,  as  it  ever  was,  his 
eyes  calm,  his  yellow  hair  in  perfect 
order,  his  moustaches  smooth,  his  el- 
bows resting  on  the  arms  of  the  chair, 
and  the  tips  of  his  fingers  meeting,  on 
one  of  which  fingers  shone  a  monster 
diamond  of  the  purest  water,  was  Mr. 
Verrall.  Early  as  the  hour  was, 
glasses  and  champagne  stood  on  the 
table. 

Mr.  Brompton  telegraphed  a  sign  to 
Mr,  Verrall,  and  he  came  out,  leaving 
the  viscount  to  waste  his  anger  upon 
air.  The  viscount  might  rely  on  one 
thing  :  that  it  was  just  as  good  to  be- 
stow it  upon  air  as  upon  Mr.  Verrall, 
for  all  the  impression  it  would  make 
on  the  latter. 

"  Godolphin  has  been  here,"  said 
Mr.  Brompton,  keeping  the  thick  doors 
carefully  closed. 

"  He  has  followed  me  to  town, 
then  !  I  thought  he  might.  It  is  of 
no  use  my  seeing  him.  If  he  won't 
go  deeper  into  the  mire,  why,  the 
explosion  must  come." 

"  He  must  go  deeper  into  it,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Brompton. 

"  He  holds  out  against  it,  and  words 
seem  wasted  on  him.  Where's  he 
gone  ?" 

"  Down  to  your  house,  I  expect. 
He  says  he  must  be  back  home  to-day, 
but  must  see  you  first.  I  thought  you 
would  not  care  to  meet  him,  so  said 
I  didn't  know  whether  you'd  be  here 
or  not." 

Mr. Verrall  mused.  "Yes,  I'll  see 
him.  I  can't  deal  with  him  altogether 
as  I  do  with  others.  And  he  has 
been  a  lucky  card  to  us." 

Mr.  Verrall  went  back  to  his  vis- 
count, who  by  that  time  was  striding 
in  the  most  explosive  manner  up  and 
down  the  room.  Mr.  Brompton  sat 
down  to  his  newspaper  again,  and 
his  interesting  news  of  the  Insolvent 
Court. 

In  one  of  the  most  charming  villas 
on  the  banks  of  the  Thames, — a  villa 
which  literally  lacked  nothing  desira- 
ble that  money  could  buy,  sums  of 
which  had  been  lavished  upon  it, — sat 


Mrs.  Verrall  at  a  late  breakfast,  on 
that  same  morning.  She  jumped  up 
with  a  little  scream  at  the  sight  of 
George  Godolphin  crossing  the  velvet 
lawn. 

"  What  ill  news  have  you  come  to 
tell  me  ?  Is  Charlotte  killed  ?  or  is 
Lady  Godolphin 's  Folly  on  fire  ?" 

"  Charlotte  was  well  when  I  left 
her,  and  the  Folly  standing,"  replied 
George,  throwing  care  momentarily 
to  the  winds,  as  he  was  sure  to  do  in 
the  presence  of  a  pretty  woman. 

"  She  will  be  killed,  you  know, 
some  day,  with  those  horses  of  hers," 
rejoined  Mrs. Verrall.  "What  have 
you  come  for,  then,  at  this  unexpected 
hour  ?"  When  Verrall  arrived  last 
night,  he  said  you  were  dinner-holding 
at  Prior's  Ash." 

"  I  want  to  see  Verrall.  Is  he  up 
yet  ?" 

"  Up  1  He  was  up  and  away  ages 
before  I  awoke.  He  went  up  early 
to  the  office." 

George  paused :  "  I  have  been  to 
the  office,  and  Mr.  Brompton  said  he 
did  not  know  whether  he  would  be 
there  to-day  at  all." 

"  Oh,  well,  /don't  know,"  returned 
Mrs.  Verrall,  believing  she  might  have 
made  an  inconvenient  admission. 
"  When  he  goes  up  to  town,  I  assume 
he  goes  to  the  office ;  but  he  may  be 
bound  to  the  wilds  of  Siberia  for  any 
thing  I  can  tell." 

"  When  do  you  expect  him  home  Tv 
asked  George. 

"  I  did  not  ask  him  when,"  care- 
lessly replied  Mrs.Verrall.  "  It  may 
be  to-day,  or  it  may  be  next  month. 
What  will  you  take  for  breakfast  ?" 

"I  will  not  take  any  thing," replied 
George,  holding  out  his  hand  to  de- 
part. 

"  But  you  are  not  going  again  in 
this  hasty  manner !  What  sort  of  a 
visit  do  you  call  this  ?" 

"A  hasty  one,"  replied  George.  "I 
must  be  at  Prior's  Ash  this  afternoon. 
Any  message  to  Charlotte  ?" 

"  Why — yes — I  have,"  said  Mrs. 
Verrall,  with  some  emphasis.  "I  was 
about  to  despatch  a  small  parcel  this 
very  next  hour  to  Charlotte,  by  post. 


204 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDTAT, 


But — when  shall  you  see  her  ?  To- 
night ?"  N 

"  I  can  see  her  to-night  if  you  wish." 

"  It  would  oblige  me  much.  The 
truth  is,  it  is  something  I  ought  to 
have  sent  yesterday,  and  I  forgot  it. 
Be  sure  let  her  have  it  to-night." 

Mrs.  Verrall  rang,  and  a  small  packet, 
no  larger  than  a  thick  letter,  was 
brought  in.  George  took  it,  and  was 
soon  being  whirled  back  to  London. 

He  stepped  into  a  cab  at  the  Water- 
loo station,  telling  the  man  he  should 
have  double  pay  if  he'd  drive  at  dou- 
ble speed,  and  it  conveyed  him  to 
Mr.Verrall's  chambers. 

George  went  straight  to  Mr.  Bromp- 
ton's  room,  as  before.  That  gentle- 
man had  finished  his  Times,  and  was 
buried  deep  in  a  pile  of  letters.  "  Is 
Verrall  in  now  ?"  asked  George. 

"  He  is  here  now,  Mr.  Godolphin. 
He  was  here  two  minutes  after  you 
departed  :  it's  a  wonder  you  did  not 
meet." 

George  knew  the  way  to  Mr.Yer- 
rall's  room,  and  was  allowed  to  enter. 
Mr.  Verrall,  alone  then,  turned  round 
with  a  cordial  grasp. 

"Halloa!"  said  he.  "We  some- 
how missed  this  morning.     How  are 


you 


?» 


"I  say, Verrall,  how  came  you  to 
play  me  such  a  trick  as  to  go  off  in 
that  clandestine  manner  yesterday  ?" 
remonstrated  George.  "You  know 
the  uncertainty  I  was  in, — that  if  I 
did  not  get  what  I  hoped  to  get,  I 
should  be  on  my  beam-ends." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  supposed  you 
had  got  it.  Hearing  nothing  of  you 
all  day,  I  concluded  it  had  come  by 
the  morning's  post." 

"  It  had  not  come,  then,"  returned 
George,  in  a  crusty  tone.  In  spite 
of  his  blind  trust  in  the  unbleached 
good  faith  of  Mr.  Verrall,  there  were 
moments  when  a  thought  would  cross 
him  whether  that  gentleman  had  been 
playing  a  double  game.  This  was 
one. 

"  I  had  a  hasty  summons,  and  was 
obliged  to  come  away  without  delay," 
explained  Mr.  Verrall.  "  I  sent  you 
a  message." 


"  Which  I  never  got,"  retorted 
George.  .  "  But  the  message  is  not 
the  question.  See  here !  A  pretty 
letter  this  for  a  man  to  receive  I  It 
came  by  the  afternoon  post." 

Mr.  Verrall  took  the  letter  and  di- 
gested the  contents  deliberately ;  in 
all  probability  he  had  known  the  sub- 
stance before.  "What  do  you  think 
of  it  ?"  demanded  George. 

"  It's  unfortunate,"  said  Mr.  Verrall. 

"  It's  ruin,"  returned  George. 

"  Unless  averted.  But  it  must  be 
averted." 

"  How  ?" 

"  There  is  one  way,  you  know," 
said  Mr.  Verrall,  after  a  pause.  "  I 
have  pointed  it  out  to  you  already." 

"  And  I  wish  your  tongue  had  been 
blistered,  Verrall,  before  you  ever  had 
pointed  it  out  to  me  !"  foamed  George. 
"  There  !" 

Mr.  Verrall  raised  his  impassive 
eyebrows.   "  You  must  be  aware " 

"  Man  !"  interrupted  George,  his 
voice  hoarse  with  emotion,  as  he 
grasped  Mr.  Verrall's  shoulder,  "  do 
you  know  that  the  temptation,  since 
you  suggested  it,  is  ever  standing  out 
before  me,  like  an  ignis  fatiais,  beck- 
oning me  on  to  it  ? — though  I  know 
that  it  would  prove  nothing  but  a 
curse  to  engulf  me." 

"  Here,  George,  take  this,"  said  Mr. 
Verrall,  pouring  out  a  large  tumbler 
of  sparkling  wine,  and  forcing  it  upon 
him.  "  The  worst  of  you  is,  that  you 
get  so  excited  over  things  !  and  then 
you  are  sure  to  look  at  them  in  a 
wrong  light.  Just  hear  me  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  pressure  is  all  at  this  pres- 
ent moment,  is  it  not  ?  If  you  can  lift 
it,  you  will  recover  yourself  fast 
enough.  Has  it  ever  struck  you,"  Mr. 
Verrall  added,  somewhat  abruptly, 
"  that  your  brother  is  fading  ?" 

Remembering  the  scene  with  his 
brother  on  the  previous  night,  George 
looked  very  conscious.  He  simply 
nodded  an  answer. 

"  With  Ashlydyat  yours,  you  would 
recover  yourself  almost  immediately. 
There  would  positively  be  no  risk." 

"No  risk  /"  repeated  George,  with 
emphasis. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


205 


"  I  cannot  see  that  there  would  be. 
Every  thing's  a  risk,  if  you  come  to 
that.  We  are  in  risk  of  earthquakes, 
of  a  national  bankruptcy,  of  various 
other  calamities :  but  the  risk  that 
would  attend  the  step  I  suggested  to 
you  is  really  so  slight  as  not  to  be 
called  a  risk.  It  never  can  be  known  : 
the  chances  are  as  a  hundred  thousand 
to  one." 

"  But  there  remains  tho  one,"  per- 
sisted George. 

"  To  let  an  expose  come  would  be 
an  act  of  madness,  at  the  worst  look- 
out ;  but  it  is  madness  and  double 
madness  when  you  may  so  soon  suc- 
ceed to  Ashlydyat." 

"  Oblige  me  by  not  counting  upon 
that,  Verrall,"  said  George.  "  I  hope, 
ill  as  my  brother  appears  to  be,  that 
he  may  live  yet." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  count  upon  it,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Verrall.  "  It  is  for  you  to 
count  upon  it,  not  me.  Were  I  in 
your  place,  I  should  not  shut  my  eyes 
to  the  palpable  fact.  Look  here  : 
your  object  is  to  get  out  of  this 
mess  ?" 

"  You  know  it  is,"  said  George. 

"  Very  well.  I  see  but  one  way  for 
you  to  do  it.  The  money  must  be 
raised  for  it,  and  how  is  that  to  be 
done  ?  Why,  by  the  means  I  suggest.  It 
will  never  be  known.  A  little  time,  and 
things  can  be  worked  round  again." 

"  I  have  been  thinking  to  work 
things  round  this  long  while,"  said 
George.  "  And  they  grow  worse  in- 
stead of  better." 

"Therefore  I  say  that  you  should 
not  shut  your  eyes  to  the  prospect  of 
Ashlydyat.  Sit  down.  Be  yourself 
again,  and  let  us  talk  things  over 
quietly." 

"  You  see,  Verrall,  the  risk  falls 
wholly  upon  me." 

"  And,  upon  whom  the  benefit,  for 
which  the  risk  will  be  incurred  ?" 
pointedly  returned  Mr.  Verrall. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  don't  get 
the  lion's  share  in  these  benefits,"  was 
George's  remark. 

"  Sit  down,  I  say.  Can't  you  be 
still  ?  Here,  take  some  more  wine. 
There,  now  let  us  talk  it  over." 


And  talk  it  over  they  did,  as  may 
be  inferred.  For  it  was  a  full  hour 
afterwards  when  George  came  oat. 
He  leaped  into  the  cab,  which  had 
waited,  telling  the  man  that  he  must 
drive  as  if  he  were  going  through 
fire  and  water.  The  man  did  so : 
and  George  arrived  at  the  Pad- 
dington  Station  just  in  time  to  lose 
the  train. 

Ah  !  when  we  see  these  gentlemen 
flying  along  in  their  Hansom  cabs,  so 
apparently  at  their  ease,  if  we  could 
but  see  also  the  miserable  perplexity 
that  is  racking  some  of  their  hearts  1 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

done!  beyond  recall. 

The  clerks  were  at  a  stand-still  in 
the  banking-house  of  Godolphin, 
Crosse,  and  Godolphin.  A  certain 
iron  safe  was  required  to  be  opened, 
and  the  key  was  not  producible. 
There  were  duplicate  keys  to  it ;  one 
of  them  was  kept  by  Mr.  Godolphin, 
the  other  by  Mr.  George.  Mr.  Hurde, 
the  cashier,  appealed  to  Isaac  Hast- 
ings. 

"  Do  you  think  it  has  been  left  with 
Mrs.  George  Godolphin?" 

"  I'll  ask  her,"  replied  Isaac,  getting 
off  his  stool.  "  I  don't  think  it  has  : 
or  she  would  have  given  it  to  me 
when  she  informed  me  of  Mr.  George 
Godolphin's  absence." 

He  went  into  the  dining-room, — that 
pleasant  room,  which  it  was  almost  a 
shame  to  designate  by  the  name.  Ma- 
ria was  standing  against  the  window- 
frame  in  a  listless  manner,  plucking 
mechanically  the  fading  blossoms  of  a 
geranium.  She  turned  her  head  at 
the  opening  of  the  door,  and  saw  her 
brother. 

"Isaac,  what  time  does  the  first 
train  come  in  ?" 

"  From  what  place  ?"  inquired 
Isaac. 

"  Oh — from  the  Portsmouth  direc- 
tion.    It  was  Portsmouth  that  Cap- 


206 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


tain  St.  Aubyn  was  to  embark  from, 
was  it  not?" 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  it," 
replied  Isaac.  "  Neither  can  I  tell  at 
what  hours  trains  arrive  from  that  di- 
rection. Maria,  has  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin  left  the  book-safe  key  with  you  ?" 

"  No,"  was  Maria's  answer.  "  I 
suppose  he  must  have  forgotten  to  do 
so.  He  has  left  it  with  me  when  he 
has  gone  on  an  unexpected  journey 
before,  after  banking-hours." 

Isaac  returned  to  the  rest  of  the 
clerks.  The  key  was  wanted  badly, 
and  it  was  decided  that  he  should  go 
up  to  Ashlydyat  for  Mr.  Godolphin's. 

He  took  the  nearest  road, — down 
Crosse  Street,  and  through  the  Ash- 
tree  walk.  It  was  a  place,  as  you 
have  heard,  especially  shunned  by 
night:  it  was  not  much  frequented  by 
day.  Therefore  it  was  no  surprise  to 
Isaac  Hastings  that  he  did  not,  all 
through  it,  meet  a  single  thing,  neither 
man  nor  ghost.  Right  at  the  very 
top,  however,  on  that  same  broken 
bench  where  Thomas  Godolphin  and 
his  bodily  agony  had  come  to  an  an- 
chor the  previous  night,  there  sat 
Charlotte  Pain. 

She  was  in  deep  thought ;  deep 
perplexit3r ;  there  was  no  mistaking 
that  her  countenance  displayed  both  : 
some  might  have  fancied  in  deep  pain, 
either  bodily  or  mental.  Pale  she  was 
not.  Charlotte's  complexion  was  made 
up  too  fashionably  for  either  red  or 
white,  born  of  emotion,  to  overspread 
it,  unless  it  might  be  emotion  of  an 
extraordinary  nature.  Hands  clenched, 
brows  knit,  lips  drawn  from  her  teeth, 
eyes  staring  on  vacancy, — Isaac  Hast- 
ings could  not  avoid  reading  the  signs. 
And  he  read  them  with  surprise. 

"  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Pain  !" 

Charlotte  started  from  her  seat  with 
a  half  scream.  "  What's  the  use  of 
your  startling  one  like  that  ?"  she 
fiercely  exclaimed. 

"  I  did  not  startle  you  intention- 
ally," replied  Isaac.  "You  might  have 
heard  my  footsteps,  had  you  not  been 
so  preoccupied.  Did  you  think  it  was 
the  ghost  arriving  ?"  he  added,  jest- 
ingly. 


"  Of  course  I  did,"  returned  Char- 
lotte, laughing,  as  she  made  an  eifort 
and  a  successful  one,  to  recover  her- 
self. "  What  do  you  do  here  this 
morning  ?  Did  you  come  to  look  after 
the  ghost,  or  after  me  ?" 

"  After  neither,"  replied  Isaac,  with 
more  truth  than  gallantry.  "  Mr. 
George  Godolphin  has  sent  me  up 
here." 

Now,  in  saying  this,  what  Isaac 
meant  to  express  was  nothing  more 
than  that  his  coming  up  was  caused 
by  George  Godolphin, — alluding,  of 
course,  to  George's  forgetfulness  in  car- 
rying off  the  key.  Charlotte,  how- 
ever took  the  words  literally,  and  her 
e}res  opened. 

"  Did  George  Godolphin  not  go  last 
night  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  went.     He  forgot ■" 

"  Then  what  can  have  brought  him 
back  so  soon  ?"  was  her  vehement  in- 
terruption, not  allowing  Isaac  time  to 
conclude.  "  There's  no  train  in  from 
London  yet." 

"  Is  there  not  ?"  was  Isaac's  rejoin- 
der, looking  keenly  at  her. 

"  Why,  of  course  there's  not, — as 
you  know,  or  ought  to  know.  Be- 
sides, he  could  not  get  the  business 
done  that  he  has  gone  upon,  and  be 
back  yet,  unless  he  came  by  telegraph. 
He  intended  to  leave  by  the  eleven- 
o'clock  train  from  Paddington." 

She  spoke  rapidly,  thoughtlessly, 
in  her  surprise.  Her  inward  thought 
was,  that  to  have  gone  to  London, 
and  come  back  again  since  the  hour  at 
which  she  parted  from  him  the  previous 
night,  one  way,  at  any  rate,  must  have 
been  accomplished  on  the  telegraph 
wires.  Had  she  taken  a  moment  for 
reflection,  she  might  not  have  spoken. 
However  familiar  she  was  with  the 
affairs  of  Mrs.  George  Godolphin,  so 
much  the  more  reason  was  there  for 
her  shunning  open  allusion  to  them. 

"  Who  told  you  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin had  gone  to  London,  Mrs.  Pain  ?" 
asked  Isaac,  after  a  pause. 

"  Do  you  think  I  did  not  know  it  ? 
Better  than  you,  Mr.  Isaac,  clever  and 
wise  as  you  deem  yourself." 

"  I  pretend  to  be  neither  one  nor 


THE      SHADOW      OF      AS1ILYDYAT 


207 


the  other,  with  regard  to  the  move- 
ments of  Mr.  George  Godolphin,"  was 
the  reply  of  Isaac.  "It  is  not  my 
place  to  he.  I  heard  he  had  only  gone 
a  stage  or  two  towards  Portsmouth 
with  a  sick  friend.  Of  course,  if  you 
know  he  has  gone  to  London,  that  is 
a  different  matter.  I  can't  stay  now, 
Mrs.  Pain :  I  have  a  message  for  Mr. 
Godolphin." 

"Then  he  is  not  back?"  cried  out 
Charlotte,  when  Isaac  was  going 
through  the  turnstile. 

"Not  yet." 

Charlotte  looked  after  him  as  he 
whisked  out  of  sight,  and  bit  her  lips. 
A  doubt  was  flashing  over  her — 
called  up  by  the  last  observation  of 
Isaac — whether  she  had  done  right  to 
allude  to  London.  When  George  had 
been  with  her,  discussing  it,  he  had 
wondered  what  excuse  he  should  in- 
vent for  taking  the  journey,  and  Char- 
lotte never  supposed  but  what  it 
would  be  known.  The  bright  idea  of 
starting  on  a  benevolent  excursion  to- 
wards Portsmouth,  had  been  an  after- 
thought of  Mr.  George's  as  he  jour- 
neyed home. 

"If  I  have  done  mischief,"  Char- 
lotte was  beginning  slowly  to  murmur, 
— but  she  threw  back  her  head  defiantly. 
"Oh,  nonsense  to  mischief!  What 
does  it  matter  ?  George  can  battle  it 
out." 

Thomas  Godolphin  was  at  breakfast 
in  his  own  room,  his  face,  pale  and 
worn,  bearing  traces  of  suffering. 
Isaac  Hastings  was  admitted  to  him, 
and  explained  the  cause  of  his  appear- 
ance. Thomas  received  the  news  of 
George's  absence  with  considerable 
surprise. 

"  He  left  me  late  last  night — in  the 
night,  I  may  say — to  return  home. 
He  said  nothing  then  of  his  intention 
to  be  absent.  Where  do  you  say  he- 
has  gone  ?" 

"  Maria  delivered  a  message  to  me, 
sir,  from  him,  to  the  effect  that  he  had 
accompanied  a  sick  friend,  Captain  St. 
Aubyn,  a  few  miles  on  the  Portsmouth 
line,"  replied  Isaac.  "But  Mrs.  Pain, 
whom  I  have  just  met,  says  it  is  to  Lon- 
don that  he  has  gone, — she  knows  it." 


Thomas  Godolphin  made  no  further 
comment.  It  may  not  have  pleased 
him  to  remark  upon  any  information 
furnished  by  Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain. 
He  handed  the  key  to  Isaac,  and  said 
he  should  speedily  follow  him  to  the 
bank.  It  had  not  been  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin's  intention  to  go  to  the  bank 
that  day,  but  the  hearing  of  George's 
absence  caused  him  to  proceed  thither. 
He  ordered  his  carriage,  and  got  there 
almost  as  soon  as  Isaac,  bearing  an 
invitation  to  Maria  from  Janet. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  given  to  busi- 
ness in  the  manager's  room,  George's, 
and  then  Thomas  Godolphin  went  to 
Maria.  She  was  seated  now  near  the 
window,  in  her  pretty  morning-dress, 
engaged  in  some  sort  of  fancy  work. 
In  her  gentle  face,  her  soft  sweet  eyes, 
Thomas  would  sometimes  fancy  he 
read  a  resemblance  to  his  lost  Ethel. 
Thomas  greatly  loved  and  estimated 
Maria. 

She  rose  to  receive  him,  holding 
out  her  hand  that  he  might  take  it,  as 
she  quietly  but  earnestly  made  inqui- 
ries into  his  state  of  health.  Not  so 
well  as  he  was  yesterday,  Thomas  an- 
swered. He  supposed  George  had 
given  her  the  account  of  their  meeting 
the  previous  night,  under  the  ash- 
trees,  and  of  his,  Thomas's,  illness. 

Maria  had  not  heard  it.  "  How 
could  George  have  been  at  the  ash- 
trees  last  night  ?"  she  wonderingly 
inquired.  "  Do  you  mean  last  night, 
Thomas  ?" 

"Yes,  last  night,  after  I  left  you. 
I  was  taken  ill  in  going  home " 

Miss  Meta,  who  had  been  fluttering 
about  the  terrace,  fluttered  in  to  see 
who  it  might  be  talking  with  her 
mamma,  and  interrupted  the  conclu- 
sion. "  Uncle  Thomas !  Uncle  Thom- 
as!" cried  she,  joyously.  They  were 
great  friends. 

Her  entrance  diverted  the  channel 
of  the  conversation.  Thomas  took  the 
child  on  his  knee,  fondly  stroking  her 
golden  curls.  Thomas  remembered  to 
have  stroked  just  such  golden  curls  on 
the  head  of  his  brother  George,  when 
he,  George,  was  a  little  fellow  of  Me 
ta's  age. 


208 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


"  Janet  bade  me  ask  if  you  would 
go  to  Ashlydyat  for  the  day,  Maria," 
said  he.     "  She " 

"  Meta  go  too,"  put  in  the  little 
quick  tongue.  "  Meta  go  too,  Uncle 
Thomas." 

"Will  Meta  be  good?  —  and  not 
run  away  from  Aunt  Janet,  and  lose 
herself  in  the  passages,  as  she  did  last 
time  ?"  said  Thomas,  with  a  smile. 

"  Meta  very  good,"  was  the  an- 
swer, given  with  an  oracular  nod  of 
promise. 

"  Then  Meta  shall  go, — if  mamma 
pleases." 

Meta  took  it  for  granted  that  mam- 
ma would  please.  She  waited  for  no 
further  consent,  but  slid  down  from 
her  seat  and  ran  away  to  find  Mar- 
gery and  tell  her.  Thomas  turned  to 
Maria. 

"Where  is  it  that  George  has  gone  ?" 
he  asked, — "  with  St.  Aubyn  ?  or  to 
London  ?" 

"  Not  to  London,"  replied  Maria. 
"  He  has  gone  with  Captain  St.  Au- 
byn. What  made  you  think  of  Lon- 
don ?" 

"  Isaac  said  Mrs.  Pain  thought  he 
had  gone  to  London,"  replied  Thomas. 
"  It  was  some  mistake,  I  suppose. 
But  I  wonder  he  should  go  out  to-day 
for  any  thing  less  urgent  than  neces- 
sity. The  bank  wants  him.  Will  you 
go  to  Ashlydyat,  Maria  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  shall  like  to  go.  I  always 
feel  dull  when  George  is  away." 

Maria  was  soon  to  be  convinced 
that  she  need  not  have  spoken  so 
surely  about  George's  having  gone 
with  Captain  St.  Aubyn.  When  she 
and  Meta,  with  Margery,  —  who 
would  have  thought  herself  grievously 
wronged  had  she  not  been  of  the  party 
to  Ashlydyat, — were  starting,  Thomas 
came  out  of  the  bank-parlor  and  ac- 
companied them  to  the  door.  While 
standing  there,  the  porter  at  the  Bell 
Inn  happened  to  pass,  and  Maria 
stopped  him  to  inquire  whether  Cap- 
tain St.  Aubyn  was  better  when  he  left. 

"  He  was  not  at  all  well,  ma'am," 
was  the  man's  answer, — "  hardly  fit  to 
travel.  He  had  been  in  a  sort  of  fever 
in  the  night  " 


"  And  my  master,  I  suppose,  must 
take  and  sit  up  with  him  !"  put  in 
Margery,  without  ceremony,  in  a  re- 
sentful tone. 

"  No  he  didn't,"  said  the  man,  look- 
ing at  Margery,  as  if  he  did  not  un- 
derstand her.  "  It  was  my  turn  to 
be  up  last  night,  and  I  was  in  and 
out  of  his  room  four  or  five  times  : 
but  nobody  stayed  with  him." 

"  But  Mr.  George  Godolphin  went 
with  Captain  St.  Aubyn  this  morn- 
ing ?"  said  Thomas  Godolphin  to  the 
man. 

"  Went  where,  sir  ?" 

"  Started  with  him, — on  his  jour- 
ney. " 

"  No,  sir ;  not  that  I  know  of.  I 
did  not  see  him  at  the  station." 

Maria  thought  the  man  must  be 
stupid.  "  Mr.  George  Godolphin  re- 
turned to  the  Bell  between  eleven 
and  twelve  last  night,"  she  explained. 
"And  he  intended  to  accompany  Cap- 
tain St.  Aubyn  this  morning  on  his 
journey." 

"  Mr.  George  was  at  the  Bell  for  a 
few  minutes  just  after  eleven,  ma'am. 
It  was  me  that  let  him  out.  He  did 
not  come  back  again.  And  I  don't 
think  he  was  up  at  the  train  this 
morning.  I'm  sure  he  was  not  with 
Captain  St.  Aubyn,  for  I  never  left 
the  captain  till  the  train  started." 

Nothing  further  was  said  to  the 
porter.  He  touched  his  hat,  and  went 
on  his  way.  Maria's  face  wore  an 
air  of  bewilderment.  Thomas  smiled 
at  her. 

"  I  think  it  is  you  who  must  be 
mistaken,"  Maria,"  said  he.  "  Depend 
upon  it,  Mrs.  Pain  is  right, — that  he 
has  gone  to  London." 

"  But  why  should  he  go  to  London 
without  telling  me  ?"  deposed  Maria. 
"  Why  sav  he  was  going  with  Captain 
St.  Aubyn  ?" 

Thomas  could  offer  no  opinion. 
Miss  Meta  began  to  stamp  her  pretty 
shoes,  and  to  drag  her  mamma  by  the 
hand.     She  was  impatient  to  depart. 

They  chose  the  way  of  the  lonely 
Ash-tree  walk.  It  was  pleasant  on  a 
sunshiny  day, — sunshine  scares  away 
ghosts, — and  it  was  also  the  nearest. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T 


209 


As  they  were  turning  into  it  they  met 
Charlotte  Pain.  Maria,  simple-hearted 
and  straightforward,  never  casting  a 
suspicion  to to  any  thing  unde- 
sirable, spoke  at  once  of  the  uncer- 
tainty she  was  in  as  to  her  husband. 

"Why  do  you  think  he  has  gone  to 
London  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  know  he  has,"  replied  Charlotte. 
"  He  told  me  he  was  going." 

"  But  he  told  me  he  was  only  going 
with  Captain  St.  Aubyn,"  returned 
Maria,  a  doubtful  sound  in  her  tone. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  gentlemen  do  not 
always  find  it  desirable  to  keep  their 
wives  au  courant  of  their  little  affairs." 

Had  it  been  salvation  to  her,  Char- 
lotte could  not  have  helped  lancing 
that  shaft  at  Maria  Godolphin.  No, — 
not  even  regard  for  George's  secrets 
stopped  her.  She  had  done  the  mis- 
chief by  speaking  to  Isaac,  and  this 
opportunity  was  too  glorious  to  be 
missed,  so  she  braved  it  out.  Had 
Charlotte  dared — for  her  own  sake — 
she  could  have  sent  forth  an  unlimited 
number  of  poisoned  arrows  daily  at 
George  Godolphin's  wife :  and  she 
would  have  relished  the  sport  amaz- 
ingly. She  sailed  off, — a  curiously 
conspicuous  smile  of  triumph  in  her 
eyes  as  they  were  bent  on  Maria,  her 
parting  movement  being  a  graciously 
condescending  nod  to  the  child. 

Maria  was  recalled  to  her  senses 
by  the  aspect  of  Margery.  The  wo- 
man was  gazing  after  Charlotte  with 
a  dark,  strange  look, — a  look  that 
Maria  understood  as  little  as  she  un- 
derstood Charlotte's  triumphant  one. 
Margery  caught  the  eye  of  her  mis- 
tress, and  smoothed  her  face  down 
with  a  short  cough. 

"  I'm  just  a  taking  the  pattern  of 
her  jacket,  ma'am.  It  matches  bravely 
with  the  pork-pie,  it  does.  I  wonder 
what  the  world  '11  come  to  next  ?  The 
men  '11  take  to  women's  clothes,  I 
suppose, — now  the  women  have  took 
to  men's.  Meta,  child,  if  I  thought 
you'd  ever  make  such  a  Jezebel  of 
yourself  when  you  grow  up  to  be  a 
woman,  I'd — -I'd " 

"What,    Margery?"   asked   Meta, 
locking  up. 
13 


"  I'd  like  to  take  you  along  of  me, 
first,   when   I'm  put  into  my  coffin. 

There  !" 

Mr.  George — as  you  may  remem- 
ber—  missed  his  train.  And  Mr. 
George  debated  whether  he  should 
command  a  special.  Two  reasons 
withheld  him.  One  was,  that  hi* 
arriving  at  Prior's  Ash  by  a  special 
train  might  excite  comment ;  the 
other,  that  a  special  train  is  expen- 
sive ;  and  of  late  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin had  not  any  too  much  of  ready 
cash  to  spare.  He  waited  for  the  next 
ordinary  train,  and  that  deposited 
him  at  Prior's  Ash  at  seven  o'clock. 

He  proceeded  hTmie  at  once.  The 
bank  was  closed  for  the  evening. 
Pierce  admitted  his  master,  who  went 
into  the  dining-room.  No  sign  of 
dinner, — no  signs  of  occupation. 

"  My  mistress  is  at  Ashlydyat,  sir. 
She  went  up  this  morning  with  Miss 
Meta  and  Margery.  You  would  like 
dinner,  sir,  would  you  not  ?" 

"  I  don't  much  care  for  it,"  responded 
George.  "  A  bit  of  any  thing.  Has 
Mr.  Godolphin  been  at  the  bank  to- 
day ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  He  has  been  here  all 
day,  I  think." 

George  went  into  the  bank-parlor, 
then  to  other  of  the  business  rooms. 
He  was  looking  about  for  letters :  he 
was  looking  at  books :  altogether  he 
seemed  to  be  busy.  Presently  he 
came  out  and  called  to  Pierce. 

"  I  want  a  light." 

Pierce  brought  it.  "  I  shall  be  en- 
gaged here  for  half  an  hour,  Pierce," 
said  his  master.  "  Should  anybody 
call,  I  cannot  be  disturbed, — under 
any  pretence,  you  understand." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  replied  Pierce7as 
he  withdrew.  And  George  locked  the 
intervening  door  between  the  house 
and  the  bank,  and  took  out  the  key. 

He  went  diving  down  a  few  stairs, 
the  light  in  his  hand ;  selected  one 
of  several  keys  which  he  had  brought 
with  him,  and  opened  the  door  of  a 
dry,  vaulted  room.  It  was  the  strong- 
room of  the  bank,  secure  and  fire- 
proof. 

"  Safe,  number  three,  on  right,'/  he 


210 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


read,  consulting  a  bit  of  paper  on 
which  he  had  copied  down  the  words 
in  pencil  up-stairs.  "  Number  three  ? 
Then  it  must  be  this  one." 

Taking  another  of  the  keys,  he  put 
it  into  the  lock.  Turned  it,  and  turned 
it  about  there,  and — could  not  open 
the  lock.  George  snatched  it  out  and 
read  the  label.  "  Key  of  safe,  number 
two." 

"What  an  idiot  I  am!  I  have 
brought  the  wrong  key  !" 

He  went  up-stairs  again,  grumbling 
at  his  stupidity,  opened  the  cupboard 
where  the  keys  were  kept,  and  looked 
for  the  right  one.  Number  three  was 
the  one  he  wanted.  And  number 
three  was  not  there. 

George  stood  transfixed.  He  had 
the  custody  of  the  keys.  No  other 
person  had  the  power  of  approaching 
the  place  they  were  guarded  in, — ex- 
eept  his  brother.  Had  the  bank  itself 
disappeared,  George  Godolphin  could 
not  have  been  much  more  astonished 
than  at  the  disappearance  of  this  key. 
Until  this  moment,  this  discovery  of 
its  absence,  he  would  have  been  ready 
to  swear  that  there  it  was,  before  all 
the  judges  of  the  land. 

He  tossed  the  keys  here  ;  he  tossed 
them  there ;  little  heeding  how  he 
misplaced  them.  George  became  con- 
vinced that  the  fates  were  dead  against 
him,  in  spiriting  away,  just  because  he 
wanted  it,  this  particular  key.  That 
no  one  could  have  touched  it  but 
Thomas,  he  knew ;  and  why  he 
should  have  done  so,  George  could 
not  imagine.  He  could  not  imagine 
where  it  was,  or  could  be,  at  the  pres- 
ent moment.  Had  Thomas  required 
it  to  visit  the  safe,  he  was  by  far  too 
exact,  too  methodical,  not  to  return  it 
to  its  place  again. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  given  to  hunt- 
ing, to  thinking — and  the  thinking  was 
n  )t  entirely  agreeable  thinking — and 
George  gave  it  up  in  despair.  "I 
must  wait  till  to-morrow,"  was  his 
conclusion.  "  If  Thomas  has  carried 
it  away  with  him,  through  forgetful- 
ne?s,  he  will  find  it  out  and  replace  it 
thm." 

He  was  shutting  the  cupboard-door. 


when  something  impeded  it  on  its 
lower  shelf,  so  that  it  would  not  close. 
Bringing  the  light  inside,  he  found — 
the  missing  key.  George  himself  must 
have  dropped  it  there  on  first  opening 
the  cupboard.  With  a  suppressed 
shout  of  delight,  he  snatched  it  up.  A 
shout  of  delight !  Better  that  George 
Godolphin  had  broken  into  a  wail  of 
lamentation  ! 

He  could  not  conceive  how  it  could 
have  got  on  that  lower  shelf.  That  be 
had  dropped  it,  there  was  no  doubt : 
but,  according  to  all  recognized  rules 
of  gravity,  it  ought  to  have  fallen  to 
the  ground  :  it  was  certainly  strange 
that  it  should  have  leaped  on  to  the 
lower  shelf,  which  lay  under  the  other. 
"  Janet  would  say  that  it  was  sent  to 
me  as  a  warning  not  to  use  the  key — 
as  I  am  about  to  use  it,"  he  said,  mus- 
ingly. The  next  moment  he  was  go- 
ing down  the  stairs  to  the  strong- 
room, laughing  at  Janet  and  her  su- 
perstition, the  key  in  his  hand. 

Safe,  number  three,  on  the  right, 
was  unlocked  without  trouble  now. 
In  that  safe  there  were  some  tin  boxes, 
on  one  of  which  was  inscribed  "  Lord 
Averil."  Selecting  another  and  a 
smaller  key  from  those  he  held,  George 
opened  this. 

It  was  full  of  papers.  George 
looked  them  rapidly  over  with  the 
quick  eye  of  one  accustomed  to  the 
work,  and  drew  forth  one  of  them. 
Rather  a  thick  parcel, — some  writing 
outside  of  it.  This  he  thrust  into  his 
pocket,  and  began  putting  the  rest  in 
order.  Had  a  mirror  been  held  before 
him  at  that  moment,  it  would  have  re- 
flected a  face  utterly  colorless. 

Very  soon  he  was  on  his  way  to 
Lady  Godolphin's  Folly,  bearing  with 
him  the  small  packet  sent  by  Mrs. 
Verrall, — a  sufficient  excuse  for  call- 
ing there,  had  George  required  an  ex- 
cuse, which  he  did  not. 

It  was  a  light  night ;  as  it  had  been 
the  previous  one,  though  the  moon 
was  not  yet  very  high.  He  gained 
the  turnstile  at  the  top  of  the  Ash- 
tree  walk — where  he  had  been  startled 
by  the  apparition  of  Thomas  the  night 
before,  and  Isaac  Hastings  had  seen 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASITLYPYAT, 


211 


Charlotte  Pain  that  morning — and 
turned  into  the  open  way  to  the  right. 
A  few  paces  more,  and  he  struck  into 
the  narrow  pathway  which  would  con- 
vey him  through  the  grove  of  trees, 
leaving  Ashlydyat  and  its  approaches 
to  the  left. 

Did  George  Godolphin  love  the 
darkness,  that  he  should  choose  that 
road  ?  Last  night  and  again  to-night 
he  had  preferred  it.  It  was  most  un- 
usual for  any  one  to  approach  the 
Folly  b}^  that  obscure  path.  A  few 
paces  round,  and  he  wTould  have  skirted 
the  thicket,  would  have  gone  on  to  the 
Folly  in  the  bright,  open  moonlight. 
Possibly  George  scarcely  noticed  that 
he  chose  it, — full  of  thought,  was  he, 
just  then. 

He  went  along  with  his  head  down. 
What  Avere  his  reflections  ?  Was  he 
wishing  that  he  could  undo  the  deeds 
of  the  last  hour, — replace  in  that  tin 
case  what  he  had  taken  from  it  ?  Was 
he  wishing  that  he  could  undo  the 
deeds  of  the  last  few  years, — be  again 
a  man  without  a  cloud  on  his  brow,  a 
more  heavy  cloud  on  his  heart  ?  It 
was  too  late :  he  could  recall  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other.  The  deed  was 
already  on  its  way  to  London  :  the 
years  had  rolled  into  the  awful  Past, 
with  its  doings,  bad  or  good,  recorded 
on  high. 

What  was  that  ?  George  lifted  his 
head  and  his  ears.  A  murmur  of  sup- 
pressed voices,  angry  voices,  too, 
sounded  near  him,  in  one  of  which 
George  thought  he  recognized  the 
tones  of  Charlotte  Pain.  He  pushed 
through  to  an  intersecting  path,  so 
narrow  that  one  person  could  with 
difficulty  walk  down  it,  just  as  a  scream 
rang  out  on  the  night  air. 

Panting,  scared,  breathless,  her  face 
ghastly  white,  so  far  as  George  could 
see  of  it  in  the  shaded  light,  her  gauze 
dress  torn  by  every  tree  with  which 
it  came  in  contact,  flying  down  the 
narrow  path,  came  Charlotte  Pain. 
And — unless  George  Godolphin  was 
strangely  mistaken  —  some  one  else 
was  flying  in  equal  terror  in  the  op- 
posite direction  of  the  path,  as  if  they 
had  just  parted. 


"Charlotte!  What  is  [t  ?  Who 
lias  alarmed  you  ?" 

In  the  moment's  first  impulse  he 
caught  hold  of  her  to  protect  her : 
in  the  second,  he  loosed  his  hold,  and 
made  after  the  other  fugitive.  The 
impression  upon  George's  mind  was, 
that  some  one,  perhaps  a  stranger, 
had  met  Charlotte,  and  frightened  her 
with  rude  words.  "  Who  was  it  ?" 
he  called  out, — and  flew  along  swiftly. 

But  Charlotte  was  as  swift  as  he. 
She  flung  her  hands  round  George, 
and  held  him  in.  Strong  arms  they 
were  always, — doubly  strong  in  that 
moment  of  agitation.  George  could 
not  unclasp  them, — unless  he  had  used 
violence. 

"  Stop  where  you  are !  Stop  where 
you  are  for  the  love  of  Heaven  !"  she 
gasped.     "You  must  not  go." 

"What  is  all  this?  What  is  the 
matter  ?"  he  asked,  in  surprise. 

She  made  no  other  answer.  She 
clung  to  him  with  all  her  weight  of 
strength,  her  arms  and  hands  strain- 
ing with  the  effort,  reiterating  wildly, 
"  You  must  not  go  !  you  must  not 
go!" 

"  Nay,  I  don't  care  to  go,"  replied 
George  :  "  it  was  for  your  sake  I  was 
following.  Be  calm,  Charlotte :  there's 
no  need  of  this  agitation." 

She  went  on,  down  the  narrow 
path,  drawing  him  along  behind  her. 
The  broader  path  gained,  —  though 
that  was  but  a  narrow  one, — she  put 
her  arm  within  his,  and  turned  to- 
wards the  house.  George  could  see 
her  scared  white  face  better  now,  and 
all  the  tricks  and  cosmetics  invented 
could  not  hide  it :  he  felt  her  heaving 
pulses  ;  he  heard  her  beating  heart. 

Bending  down  to  her,  he  spoke  with 
a  soothing  whisper.  "  Tell  me  what 
it  was  that  terrified  you." 

She  would  not  answer.  She  only 
pressed  his  arm  wuth  a  tighter  pres- 
sure, lest  he  might  break  from  her 
again  in  the  pursuit ;  she  pushed  on- 
wards with  a  quicker  step.  Skirting 
round  the  trees,  when  they  emerged 
from  them,  which  in  front  of  the  house 
made  a  half  concave  circle,  Charlotte 
came   to   the    end,   and   then   darted 


212 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


rapidly  across  the  lawn  to  the  terrace 
and  into  the  house  by  one  of  the  win- 
dows. 

Her  first  movement  was  to  close 
the  shutters  and  bar  them  :  her  next 
to  sit  down  on  the  nearest  chair. 
White  and  ill  as  she  looked,  George 
could  scarcely  forbear  a  smile  at  her 
gauze  dress  :  the  bottom  of  its  skirt 
was  hanging  in  tatters. 

"  Will  you  let  me  get  you  some- 
thing, Charlotte  ? — or  ring  for  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  any  thing,"  she  an- 
swered. "  I  shall  be  all  right  directly. 
How  could  you  frighten  me  so  ?" 

"  /frighten you?"  returned  George. 
"  It  was  not  I  who  frightened  you." 

"  Indeed  it  was.  You  and  no  one 
else.     Did  you  not  hear  me  scream  ?" 

"I  did."" 

"  It  was  at  you,  rustling  through 
the  trees,"  persisted  Charlotte.  "  I 
had  gone  out  to  see  if  the  air  would 
do  any  good  to  this  horrid  headache, 
which  has  stopped  upon  me  since  last 
night,  and  won't  go  away.  I  strolled 
into  the  thicket  of  trees,  thinking  of 
all  sorts  of  lonely  things,  never  sus- 
pecting that  you  or  anybody  else  was 
near  me,  until  the  trees  began  to 
shake.  I  wonder  I  did  not  faint,  as 
well  as  scream." 

"  Charlotte,  what  nonsense  !  You 
were  whispering  with  some  one, — 
some  one  who  escaped  in  the  opposite 
direction.     Who  was  it  ?" 

"  I  saw  no  one  ;  I  heard  no  one. 
Neither  was  I  whispering." 

He  looked  at  her  intently.  That 
she  was  telling  an  untruth  he  believed, 
for  he  felt  nearly  positive  that  some 
second  person  had  been  there.  "Why 
did  you  stop  me,  then,  when  I  would 
have  gone  in  pursuit  ?" 

"  It  was  your  fault  for  attempting 
to  leave  me,"  was  Charlotte's  answer. 
"  I  would  not  have  remained  by  my- 
self for  a  jar-full  of  gold." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  some  secret.  I 
think,  whatever  it  may  be,  Charlotte, 
you  might  trust  me."  He  spoke  sig- 
nificantly,— a  stress  on  the  last  word. 
Charlotte  rose  from  her  seat. 

"So    I   would,"   she   said,    "were 


there  any  thing  to  trust.  Just  look 
at  me  !,    My  dress  is  ruined." 

"  You  should  take  it  up  if  you  go 
amidst  clumsy  trees,  whose  rough 
trunks  nearly  meet." 

"I  had  got  it  up — until  you  came," 
returned  Charlotte,  jumping  upon  a 
chair  that  she  might  survey  it  in  one 
of  the  side  glasses.  "  You  startled 
me  so  that  I  dropped  it.  I  might 
have  it  joined,  and  a  lace  flounce  put 
upon  it,"  she  mused.  "  It  cost  a  great 
deal  of  money,  did  this  dress,  I  can 
tell  you,  Mr.  George." 

She  jumped  off  the  chair  again,  and 
George  produced  the  packet  confided 
to  him  by  Mrs.Verrall.     . 

"  I  promised  her  that  you  should 
have  it  to-night,"  he  said.  "  Hence,  my 
unfortunate  appearance  here,  which  it 
seems  has  so  startled  you." 

"  Oh,  that's  over  now.  When  did 
you  get  back  ?" 

"  By  the  seven-o'clock  train.  I  saw 
Yerrall." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  It's  not  well.  It's  ill.  Do  you 
know  what  I  begin  to  suspect  at 
times  ?  That  Yerrall  and  everybody 
else  is  playing  me  false.  I  am  sick 
of  the  world." 

"  No  he  is  not,  George.  If  I  thought 
he  were,  I'd  tell  you  so.  I  would,  on 
my  sacred  word  of  honor.  It  is  not 
likely  that  he  is.  When  we  are  in  a 
bilious  mood  every  thing  wears  to  us 
a  jaundiced  tinge.  You  are  in  one 
to-night." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE    TRADITION   OF   THE    DARK    PLAIN. 

It  is  the  province  of  little  demoi- 
selles to  be  haughty  :  it  is  their  de- 
light to  make  golden  promises  and 
then  break  them,  all  false  and  fearless 
— as  they  may  do  over  other  affairs 
in  later  life.  Miss  Meta  Godolphin 
was  no  exception.  She  had  gravely 
promised  her  Uncle  Thomas  to  be  a 
good   girl,  and   not   run   away  to  be 


THE     SHADOW     OF     ASHLYDYAT 


213 


lost  in  unfrequented  passages  :  yet  no 
sooner  had  the  young  lady  arrived  at 
Ashlydyat  and  been  released  of  her 
out-door  things  by  Margery,  than 
with  a  joyously  defiant  laugh  of 
triumph,  that  would  have  rejoiced 
the  heart  of  Charlotte  Pain,  she  flew 
away  off  to  the  forbidden  spot, — the 
unused  passages.  Had  the  little 
lady's  motive  been  laid  bare,  it  might 
have  been  found  to  consist  of  one 
tempting  whole, — the  enjoyment  of  a 
thing  forbidden.  Truth  to  say,  Miss 
Meta  was  uncommonly  prone  to  be 
disobedient  to  all  persons,  save  one. 
That  one  was  her  mother.  Maria 
had  never  spoken  a  sharp  word  to 
the  child  in  her  life,  or  used  a  sharp 
tone  :  but  she  had  contrived  to  train 
the  little  one  to  obey,  as  well  as  to 
love.  George,  Margery,  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings, Miss  Meta  would  openly  dis- 
obey, and  laugh  in  their  faces  while 
she  did  it :  her  mother,  never.  Meta 
remembered  a  scolding  she  received 
on  the  last  visit  she  had  paid  to  Ash- 
lydyat, touching  the  remote  passages 
i — she  had  never  found  them  out  until 
then — and  apparently  the  reminiscence 
of  the  scolding  was  so  agreeable  that 
she  was  longing  for  it  to  be  repeated. 
"  Now, "said  Margery,  as  she  finished 
the  young  lady's  toilette,  "you'll  not 
go  up  to  them  old  rooms  and  passages 
to-day,  mind,  Miss  Meta!" 

For  answer,  Miss  Meta  shook  out 
her  golden  curls,  laughed  defiantly, 
and  started  off  to  the  passages  there 
and  then.  Maria  had  never  said  to 
her,  "  You  must  not  go  near  those 
passages,"  and  the  commands  of  the 
rest  of  the  world  counted  for  nothing. 
Margery  remained  in  blissful  ignor- 
ance of  the  disobedience.  She  sup- 
posed the  child  had  run  to  her  mo- 
ther and  the  Miss  Godolphins.  The 
objection  to  Meta's  being  in  the  pas- 
sages alone,  had  no  mysterious  or 
covert  element  in  it.  It  proceeded 
solely  from  a  regard  to  her  personal 
safety.  The  stair-case  leading  to  the 
turret  was  unprotected ;  the  loopholes 
in  the  turret  were  open,  and  a  fall 
from  either  might  cost  the  young 
lady  her  life.     These  places,  the  un- 


frequented passages  at  the  back  of 
the  second  story,  and  the  stair-case 
leading  to  the  square  turret  above 
them,  were  shut  in  by  a  door,  which 
closed  them  from  the  inhabited  part 
of  the  house.  This  door  Miss  Meta 
had  learned  to  open  :  and  away  she 
went,  as  her  fancy  led  her. 

Maria  was  in  Miss  Giodolphin"s 
room,  talking  to  that  lady  and  to 
Bessy.  Bessy  had  been  out  visiting 
for  a  few  days,  but  had  returned  the 
previous  evening.  "Where  is  it  that 
George  has  gone  ?"  Janet  was  ask- 
ing of  Maria.  "  Your  brother  Isaac 
said  this  morning  that  he  was  away." 

"  I  cannot  tell  where  he  has  gone  : 
there  appears  to  be  some  mistake 
over  it,"  replied  Maria.  "  George 
was  called  away  from  his  guests  last 
night  to  see  Captain  St.  Aubyn,  who 
was  lying  ill  at  the  Bell.  He  came 
home  soon  after  eleven,  said  the  cap- 
tain was  very  ill,  and  that  he  should 
return  to  sit  up  with  him,  and  prob- 
ably accompany  him  a  stage  or  two 
in  the  morning." 

"  He  must  have  returned  home, 
then,  direct  from  here,"  remarked 
Janet,  "He  came  here  with  Thomas, 
whom  he  encountered  in  the  Ash-tree 
walk " 

"  But  what  brought  George  at  all 
in  the  Ash-tree  walk  last  night  V 
interrupted  Maria.  "Thomas  said 
something  about  it,  but  I  forgot  to 
ask  him  again." 

"He  had  been  to  Mr.Yerrall's,  he 
told  Thomas." 

"But  Mr.  Verrall  is  not  at  the 
Folly,"  objected  Maria. 

"Oh,  he  must  have  been  paying  an 
evening  visit  to  Charlotte  Pain,"  said 
Bessy,  who  rarely  judged  it  necessary 
to  conceal  her  thoughts  and  opinions. 

"  I  fancy  George  is  rather  fond  of 
paying  evening  visits  to  Mrs.  Pain. 
Very  foolish  of  him !  I'm  sure  she's 
not  worth  it. " 

"  It  is  Mrs.  Pain  who  says  he  is 
gone  to  London  :  and  not  with  Cap- 
tain St.  Aubyn,"  said  Maria.  "  I  can- 
not in  the  least  understand  it.  If  he 
had  any  intention  of  going  to  London, 
as  Mrs.  Pain  says,  he  would  not  come 


•214 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


home  and  tell  me  he  was  going  some- 
where else." 

"He  said  nothing  to  Thomas  that 
lie  was  going  anywhere,"  observed 
Janet.     "George " 

A  sound  overhead  startled  Janet 
and  caused  her  to  stop.  Not  that 
the  sound,  from  its  noise,  could  have 
startled  any  one.  It  was  a  very  faint 
sound,  and  no  ears,  perhaps,  save  the 
ever-wakeful  ones  of  Janet,  would 
have  detected  it.  The  turret  was 
built  partially  over  Janet's  room,  and 
it  was  so  unusual  for  any  noise,  or 
sound,  to  be  heard  in  it,  that  Janet 
could  not  help  being  startled  now. 
From  year's-end  to  year's-end  that 
lonely  turret  remained  in  silence,  un- 
less when  invaded  by  Janet. 

"Where's  Meta  ?"  hastily  cried  Janet, 
running  out  of  the  room.  "  She  cannot 
have  got  up-stairs  again!  Margery! 
Where's  the  child  ?" 

Margery  at  that  moment  happened 
to  be  putting  the  finishing  touches  to 
her  own  toilette.  She  came  flying, 
without  her  cap,  out  of  one  of  the 
many  narrow  passaged  and  windings 
which  intersected  each  other  on  that 
floor.  "The  child  went  off  to  you, 
ma'am  as  soon  as  I  had  tied  her  pina- 
fore on." 

"  Then,  .Margery  she's  got  into  the 
turret.     She  never  came  to  us." 

Up  to  the  turret  hastened  Janet ; 
up  to  the  turret  followed  Margery, 
eapless  as  she  was.  Bessy  and  Maria 
traversed  the  passage  leading  to  the 
turret-stairs,  and  stood  there,  looking 
up.  Maria,  had  she  been  alone,  could 
not  have  told  which  of  the  passages 
would  lead  her  to  the  turret-stairs ; 
and  she  could  not  understand  why 
so  much  commotion  need  be  made, 
although  Meta  had  run  up  there. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem,  Maria  Godol- 
phin,  though  so  many  years  George's 
wife  and  the  presumptive  future  mis- 
tress of  Ashlydyat,  had  never  been 
beyond  that  separating  door.  Miss 
Godolphin  had  never  offered  to  take 
her  beyond  it,  to  show  her  the  unused 
rooms  and  the  turret ;  and  Maria  was 
of  too  sensitively  refined  a  nature  to 
ask  it  of  her  own  accord. 


Janet  appeared,  leading  the  rebel ; 
Margery  behind,  scolding  volubly. 
"  Now,"  said  Janet,  when  they  reached 
the  foot,  "tell  me,  Meta,  how  it  was 
that  you  could  behave  so  disobedi- 
ently, and  go  where  you  had  been 
expressly  told  not  to  go  ?" 

Meta  shook  back  her  golden  curls 
with  a  laugh,  sprang  to  Maria,  and 
took  refuge  in  her  skirts.  "  Mamma 
did  not  tell  me  not  to  go,"  said  she. 

Janet  looked  at  Maria :  almost  as 
if  she  would  say,  Can  it  be  true  that 
you  have  not  ? 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Maria,  answering 
the  look.  "  I  heard  something  about 
her  running  into  the  turret  the  last 
time  she  was  here  :  I  did  not  know  it 
was  of  any  consequence." 

"  She  might  fall  through  the  loop- 
holes," replied  Janet.  "  Nothing  could 
save  her  from  being  dashed  to  pieces." 

Maria  caught  the  child  to  her  with 
an  involuntary  movement.  "Meta, 
darling,  do  you  hear  ?  You  must 
never  go  again." 

Meta  looked  up  fondly,  serious  now. 
Maria  bent  her  face  down  on  the  little 
upturned  one. 

"  Never  again,  darling  ;  do  not  for- 
get," she  murmured.  "  Does  Meta 
know  that  if  harm  came  to  her,  mam- 
ma would  never  look  up  more  ?  She 
would  cry  always." 

Meta  bustled  out  of  her  mamma's 
arms,  and  stood  before  Miss  Godol- 
phin, earnest  decision  on  her  little 
face.  "  Aunt  Janet,  Meta  won't  run 
away  again." 

And  when  the  child  made  a  volun- 
tary promise  like  that,  they  knew  that 
she  would  keep  her  word.  Margery 
whirled  her  away,  telling  her  in  a 
high  tone  of  a  young  lady  of  her  own 
age  who  would  do  something  that 
she  was  bade  not  to  do  :  the  conse- 
quence of  which  act  was,  that  the 
next  time  she  was  out  for  a  walk,  she 
was  run  at  by  a  bull  with  brass  tips 
on  his  horns. 

"  Is  the  turret  really  dangerous  ?" 
inquired  Maria. 

"It  is  dangerous  for  a  random  child 
like  Meta,  who  ventures  into  every 
hole  and  comer,  without  reference  to 


THE     SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDTAT, 


215 


dirt  or  danger,"  was  Miss  Godolphin's 
answer.  "  Would  you  like  to  go  up, 
Maria  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  should.  I  have  heard 
George  speak  of  the  view  from  it." 

"Mind,  Maria,  the  stairs  are  narrow 
and  winding,"  interposed  Bessy. 

Nevertheless  they  wont  up,  passing 
the  open  loopholes  which  might  be 
dangerous  to  Meta.  The  first  thing 
that  Maria's  eyes  encountered  when 
they  had  reached  the  top,  was  a  small 
bow  of  violet-colored  ribbon.  She 
stooped  to  pick  it  up. 

"It  is  a  bow  off  Janet's  evening- 
dress,"  exclaimed  Bessy.  "Janet" — 
turning  to  her  sister — "what  can  have 
brought  it  here  ?" 

"I  was  up  here  last  night,"  was  the 
answer  of  Janet  Godolphin,  spoken 
with  composure. 

"  That's  just  like  you,  Janet !"  re- 
torted Bessy.  "  To  watch  for  that 
foolish  Shadow,  I  suppose." 

"  Not  to  watch  for  it.     To  see  it." 

Bessy  was  afflicted  with  a  taint  of 
heresy.  They  had  never  been  able  to 
imbue  her  with  the  superstition  per- 
taining to  the  Godolphins.  Bessy 
had  seen  the  Shadow  more  than  once 
with  her  own  eyes:  but  they  were 
practical  eyes  and  not  imaginative, 
and  could  not  be  made  to  see  any 
thing  mysterious  in  it.  "  The  shade 
is  thrown  by  some  tree  or  other," 
Bessy  would  say.  And  in  spite  of  its 
being  pointed  out  to  her  that  there 
was  no  tree  near,  which  could  cast  a 
shadow  on  the  spot,  Bessy  obstinately 
held  to  her  own  opinion. 

Maria  gazed  from  the  two  sides  of 
the  turret.  The  view  from  both  was 
magnificent.  The  one  side  overlooked 
the  charming  open  country;  the  other, 
Prior's  Ash.  On  the  third  side  rose 
Lady  Godolphin's  Folly,  standing  out 
like  a  white  foreground  to  the  lovely 
expanse  of  scenery  behind;  the  fourth 
side  looked  down  on  the  Dark  Plain. 
"  There's  Charlotte  Pain  !"  said 
Bessy. 

Charlotte  had  returned  home,  it  ap- 
peared, since  Maria  met  her,  and 
changed  her  attire.  She  was  pacing 
the  terrace  in  her  riding-habit,  a  whip 


in  her  hand  and  some  dogs  surround- 
ing her.  Maria  turned  towards  the 
Dark  Plain,  and  gazed  upon  it. 

"Is  it  true,"  she  timidly  asked, 
"that  the  Shadow  has  been  there  for 
the  last  night  or  two  ?" 

Janet  answered  the  question  by 
asking  another.  '"Who  told  you  it 
was  there,  Maria  ?" 

"  I  heard  Margery  say  it." 

"  Margery  ?"  repeated  Janet.  "  That 
woman  appears  to  know  by  instinct 
when  the  Shadow  comes.  She  dreams 
it,  I  think.  It  is  true,  Maria,  that  it 
has  appeared  again,"  she  continued. 
in  a  tone  of  unnatural  composure.  "  1 
never  saw  it  so  black  as  it  was  last 
night." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  there  can  be 
any  thing  in  it, — that  it  is  a  forebod- 
ing of  ill  ?"  asked  Maria. 

"  I  know  that  it  is  the  tradition 
handed  down  with  our  house :  I  know 
that,  in  my  own  experience,  the 
Shadow  never  came  but  it  brought 
ill,"  was  the  reply  of  Miss  Godolphin. 

"Janet,  I  have  never  seen  the 
Shadow  but  once,"  resumed  Maria. 
"And  I  could  not  see  much  of  it  then, 
for  George  hurried  me  away.  It  was 
the  night  that  we  reached  home  after 
our  marriage." 

"And  pray,  if  it  be  Heaven's  pleas- 
ure, that  you  may  never  see  it  again  !" 
broke  from  Janet  in  answer. 

"  What  caused  the  superstition  to 
arise  in  the  first  instance  ?"  asked 
Maria. 

"  Has  George  never  told  you  the 
tale  ?"  replied  Janet. 

"  Never.  He  says  he  does  not  re- 
member it  clearly  enough." 

"  It  is  to  be  hoped  he  may  never 
have  cause  to  remember  it  more  clear- 
ly !"  was  the  severe  rejoinder  of  Janet. 
For  a  Godolphin  to  forget,  or  to  pro- 
fess to  forget,  the  house  tradition,  was 
rank  heathenism  in  the  sight  of  Janet. 

"  Will  you  not  tell  it  me,  Janet  ?" 

Janet  hesitated.  "  One  of  the  early 
Godolphins  brought  a  curse  upon  the 
house,"  she  at  length  slowly  began. 
"  It  was  that  evil  ancestor  whoso 
memory  we  would  bury,  were  it  prac- 
ticable ;   he  who  earned    for  himself 


216 


THE       SHADOW       OP       ASHLYDYAT, 


the  title  of  the  Wicked  Godolphin. 
He  killed  his  wife " 

"Killed  his  wife  I"  interrupted  Ma- 
ria, somewhat  startled. 

"Killed  her  by  gradual  and  long- 
continued  ill  treatment,"  explained 
Janet,  whose  voice  had  sunk  to  a 
hushed  tone.  "He  wanted  her  out 
of  the  way  that  another  might  fill  her 
place.  He  pretended  to  have  dis- 
covered that  she  was  not  worthy : 
than  which  assertion  nothing  could  be 
more  shameful  and  false,  for  she  was 
one  of  the  best  ladies  ever  created. 
She  was  a  De  Commins,  daughter  of 
the  warrior  Richard  de  Commins,  who 
was  brave  as  she  was  good.  The 
Wicked  Godolphin  turned  her  coffin 
out  of  the  house  on  to  the  Dark  Plain, 
there" — pointing  down  to  the  open 
space  in  front  of  the  archway — "there 
to  remain  until  the  day  came  for  in- 
terment to  bring  home  his  second 
wife." 

"  Not  wait !"  exclaimed  Maria,  her 
eager  ears  drinking  in  the  story. 

"  The  manners  in  those  early  days 
will  scarcely  admit  of  an  allusion  to 
them  in  these,"  continued  Janet : 
'they  savor  of  what  is  worse  than 
barbarism, — sin.  The  father,  Richard 
de  Commins,  heard  of  his  child's  death, 
and  hastened  to  Ashlydyat,  arriving 
by  moonlight.  The  first  sounds  he 
encountered  were  the  revels  of  the 
celebration  of  the  second  marriage  ; 
the  first  sight  he  saw  was  the  coffin  of 
his  daughter  on  the  open  plain,  a  pall 
covering  it,  and  two  of  her  faithful 
women  attendants  sitting,  the  one  at 
the  head,  the  other  at  the  foot,  mourn- 
ing the  dead.  While  he  halted  there, 
kneeling  to  say  a  prayer,  it  was  told 
to  the  Wicked  Godolphin  that  de  Com- 
mins had  arrived.  He — that  Wicked 
Godolphin — rushed  madly  out  and 
drew  his  sword  upon  him  as  he  knelt. 
De  Commins  was  wounded,  but  not 
badly,  and  he  rose  to  defend  himself. 
There  ensued  a  combat,  De  Commins 
having  no  resource  but  to  fight,  and 
he  was  killed, — was  murdered.  Weary 
with  his  journey,  enfeebled  by  age, 
weakened  by  grief,  his  foot  slipped, 
and  the  wicked  Godolphin,  stung  to 


fury  by  the  few  words  of  reproach  De 
Commins  had  had  time  to  speak,  de- 
liberately ran  him  through  as  he  lay. 
In  the  moment  of  death,  De  Commins 
cursed  the  Godolphins,  prophesied 
that  the  shadow  of  his  daughter's  bier, 
as  it  appeared  then,  should  remain  to 
bring  a  curse  upon  the  Godolphin's 
house  forever." 

"But  how  do  you  believe  the  story?" 
cried  Maria,  breathlessly. 

"  How  much  of  it  may  be  true  and 
how  much  of  it  addition,  I  cannot  de- 
cide," said  Janet.  "  One  fact  is  indis- 
putable :  that  a  shadow,  bearing  the 
exact  resemblance  of  a  bier,  with  a 
mourner  at  its  head  and  another  at  its 
foot,  does  appear  capriciously  on  that 
Dark  Plain :  and  that  it  never  yet 
showed  itself,  but  some  grievous  ill 
followed  for  the  Godolphins." 

"Janet,"  cried  Maria,  leaning  for- 
ward, her  own  tones  hushed,  "is  it 
possible  that  one,  in  dying,  can  curse 
a  whole  generation,  so  that  the  curse 
shall  take  effect  ?" 

"Hush,  child  !"  rebuked  Janet.  "  It 
does  not  become  us  to  inquire  into 
these  things.  They  are  far,  far  above 
the  ken  of  our  poor  earthly  wisdom. 
I  do  not  attempt  to  enter  upon  it. 
Were  I  to  say,  of  my  own  decision, 
God  does  permit  this  curse  to  remain 
and  to  take  effect  upon  us,  the  descend- 
ants of  that  wicked  man  :  were  I,  on 
the  contrary,  to  fling  it  from  me  in  de- 
rision, to  say,  it  is  folly,  no  such  thing 
as  a  curse  can  hold  its  effect ;  all  that 
has  happened  to  us  of  ill,  happens  by 
accident,  the  appearance  of  the  shadow 
is  but  an  accident,  induced  by  natural 
causes,  though  we  cannot  find  the  pre- 
cise clue  to  them — I  should  be  only  a 
degree  less  wicked  than  that  dead-and- 
gone  Godolphin.  We  must  be  con- 
tent to  leave  these  things.  They  can 
never  be  decided,  until  all  the  myste- 
ries of  this  lower  world  shall  be  cleared 
up  by  means  of  that  Light  which  has 
not  yet  entered  it.  Controversy  on 
them  is  utterly  bootless,  worse  than 
profitless ;  for  there  will  be  believers 
and  disbelievers  to  the  end  of  time. 
You  wished  me  to  tell  you  the  story, 
Maria,  and  I  have  done  so.     I  do  no 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


217 


more.     I  do  not  toll  you  it  is  to  be 

believed,  or  it  is  not  to  be  believed. 
Let  every  one  decide  for  himself,  ac- 
cording- as  his  reason,  his  instinct,  or 
his  judgment  shall  prompt  him.  Peo- 
ple accuse  me  of  being  foolishly  super- 
stitious, touching  this  Shadow  and 
these  old  traditions.  I  can  only  say 
the  superstition  has  been  forced  upon 
me  by  experience.  When  the  Shadow 
appears,  I  cannot  shut  my  eyes  to  it 
and  say  '  It  is  not  there.'  It  is  there  : 
and  all  I  do,  is  to  look  at  it,  and  spec- 
ulate. When  the  evil,  which  invari- 
ably follows  the  appearance  of  the 
Shadow,  falls,  I  cannot  close  my  heart 
to  it,  and  say,  in  the  teeth  of  facts, 
'  No  evil  has  happened.'  The  Shadow 
never  appeared,  Maria,  but  it  brought 
ill  in  its  wake.  It  is  appearing  again 
now :  and  I  am  as  certain  that  some 
great  ill  is  in  store,  as  that  I  am  talk- 
ing with  you  at  this  moment.  In  this 
point  I  am  superstitious." 

A  pause  ensued.  Bessy  Godolphin 
was  watching  the  distant  movements 
of  Charlotte  Pain.  Bessy's  mind 
would  not  admit  of  superstition  :  it 
appeared  to  be  constituted  dead  against 
it:  but  Bessy  did  not  cast  to  it  ridi- 
cule, as  George  sometimes  would. 
Maria  broke  the  silence. 

"  It  is  a  long  while,  is  it  not,  since 
the  Shadow  last  appeared  ?" 

"  It  is  years.  The  last  time  it  ap- 
peared, was  the  time  you  have  just 
alluded  to,  Maria  :  the  night  you  first 
came  up  here  after  your  marriage." 

"  How  did  you  know  that  it  ap- 
peared that  night  ?"  asked  Maria,  in 
her  surprise. 

"  Child,"  gravely  answered  Janet, 
"  there  are  few  times  it  has  been  seen 
that  I  have  not  known  it." 

Maria  wondered  whether  Janet 
came  up  every  night  to  the  turret  to 
gaze  on  the  Dark  Plain.  It  was  not 
unlikely.     Janet  resumed. 

"  I  have  not  quite  finished  the  story. 
The  Wicked  Godolphin  killed  Richard 
de  Commins,  and  buried  him  that  night 
on  the  Bark  Plain.  In  his  fury  and 
passion  he  called  his  servants  around 
him,  ordered  a  grave  to  be  dug,  and 
helped  with  his  own  hands.    De  Com- 


mins was  put  into  it  without  the  rites 
of  burial.  Tradition  runs  that  so  long 
as  the  bones  remain  unfound,  the  place 
will  retain  the  appearance  of  a  grave- 
yard. They  have  been  often  searched 
for.  That  Tragedy  no  doubt  gave  the 
name  to  the  place,  'Dark  Plain.'  It 
cannot  be  denied  that  the  place  doe* 
wear  much  the  appearance  of  a  grave- 
yard,— especially  by  moonlight." 

"  It  is  the  effect  of  the  low  gorse 
bushes,"  said  Bessy.  "  They  grow  in 
a  peculiar  form.  I  know  I  would  have 
those  bushes  rooted  up,  were  I  master 
of  Ashlydyat !" 

"Your  father  had  it  done,  Bessy, 
and  they  sprung  up  again,"  replied 
Janet.     "You  must  remember  it." 

"  It  could  not  have  been  done  effect- 
ually," was  Bessy's  answer.  "  Papa 
must  have  had  lazy  men  to  work,  who 
left  the  roots  in.  I  would  dig  it  all 
up,  and  make  a  ploughed  field  of  it," 

"  Did  he  do  any  other  harm — that 
Wicked  Godolphin?"  asked  Maria, 

"  He  !  other  harm  !"  reiterated 
Janet,  something  like  indignation  at 
Maria's  question,  mingling  with  the 
surprise  in  her  tone.  "  Don't  you 
know  that  it  was  he  who  gambled 
away  Ashlydyat  ?  After  that  second 
marriage  of  his,  he  took  to  worse  and 
worse  courses.  It  was  said  that  his 
second  wife  proved  a  match  for  him, 
and  they  lived  together  like  two  evil 
demons.  All  things  considered,  it  was 
perhaps  a  natural  sequence  that  they 
should  so  live,"  added  Janet,  in  a  se- 
vere tone.  "And  in  the  end  he  cut 
off  the  entail  and  gambled  away  the 
estate.  Many  years  elapsed  before 
the  Godolphins  could  get  it  back 
again." 

Maria  was  longing  to  put  a  ques- 
tion. She  had  heard  that  there  were 
other  superstitious  marvels  attaching 
to  Ashlydyat,  but,  she  scarcely  liked 
to  mention  them  direct  to  the  Miss 
Godolphins.  George  never  would  ex- 
plain any  thing  :  he  always  turned  it 
off  with  laughing  raillery.  "  Is  there 
not  some  superstition  connected  with 
the  old  passages  here?"  she  at  length 
ventured  to  say. 

"Tradition  goes  that  before  the  fall 


218 


THE     SHADOW     OF     ASHLYDYAT 


of  Ashlydyat,  a  sound,  the  like  of 
which  had  never  been  heard  for  in- 
tensit}r  and  fearfulness,  resounded 
through  the  passages  and  shook  the 
house  to  its  centre.  It  was  the  warn- 
ing of  its  fall.  Since  then,  a  strange 
noise,  as  of  the  wind  whistling,  has 
occasionally  been  heard  in  the  pas- 
sages  " 

"I  do  not  quite  understand,  Janet, 
what  you  mean  by  the  fall  of  Ashly- 
dyat," interrupted  Maria. 

"When  it  fell  from  the  Godolphins, 
— when  the  Wicked  Godolphin  brought 
the  evil  upon  the  race,  and  then  gam- 
bled the  house  away.  Tradition  goes 
that  the  same  sound  will  come  as  a 
warning  before  the  second  fall." 

"  When   it "      Maria   stopped 

and  hesitated. 

"  When  it  shall  pass  away  finally 
from  the  Godolphins,"  explained  Janet. 

«  You— think,—  then,— that  it  will 
pass  away  from  them  ?" 

Janet  shook  her  head.  "  We  have 
been  reared  in  the  belief,"  she  an- 
swered. "  That  the  estate  is  to  pass 
finally  away  from  them  the  Godol- 
phins have  been  taught  to  fear  ever 
since  that  unhappy  time.  Each  gen- 
eration, as  they  have  come  into  pos- 
session, have  accepted  it  as  an  uncer- 
tain tenure, — as  a  thing  that  might 
last  them  for  their  time,  or  might  pass 
away  from  them  ere  their  sojourn 
on  earth  was  completed.  The  belief 
was — nay  the  tradition  Was — that  so 
long  as  a  reigning  Godolphin  held 
by  Ashlydyat,  Ashlydyat  would  hold 
by  him  and  his.  My  father  was  the 
first  to  break  it." 

Janet  had  taken  up  her  dress,  and 
sat  down  on  a  faded,  dusty,  crimson 
bench,  the  only  article  of  furniture  of 
any  description  that  the  small  square 
room  contained.  The  strangely  specu- 
lative look — it  was  scarcely  an  earthly 
one — had  come  into  her  eyes  :  and 
though  she  answered  when  spoken  to, 
she  appeared  to  be  lost  in  sad,  inward 
thought.  Maria,  somewhat  awe-struck 
with  the  turn  the  conversation  had 
taken,  with  the  words  altogether, 
stood  against  the  opposite  window, 
her  delicate  hands  clasped  before  her, 


her  face  slightly  bent  forward,  pale 
and  grave. 

"  Then,  do  you  fear  that  the  end 
for  the  Godolphins  is — is  at  hand  ?" 
resumed  Maria. 

"I  seem  to  see  that  it  is,"  replied 
Janet.  "  I  have  looked  for  it  ever 
since  my  father  left  Ashlydyat.  I 
might  say  —  but  that  I  should  be 
laughed  at,  worse  than  I  am,  for  a 
speculative  idealist — that  the  stran- 
gers to  whom  he  resigned  it  in  his 
place,  would  have  some  bearing  upon 
our  fall,  would  in  some  way  conduce 
to  it.  I  think  of  these  things  ever," 
continued  Janet,  almost  as  if  she 
would  apologize  for  the  wildness  of 
the  confession.  "  They  seem  to  un- 
fold themselves  to  me,  to  become  clear 
and  more  clear, — to  be  no  longer  fan- 
ciful fears  that  dart  across  the  brain, 
but  realities  of  life." 

Maria's  lips  slightly  parted  as  she 
listened.  "  But  the  Yerralls  have  left 
Ashlydyat  a  long  while  ?"  she  pres- 
ently said. 

"  I  know  they  have.  But  they  were 
the  usurpers  of  it  for  the  time.  Bet- 
ter— as  I  believe — that  my  father  had 
shut  it  up, — better,  far  better,  that  he 
had  never  quitted  it !  He  knew  it 
also, — and  it  preyed  upon  him  on  his 
death-bed." 

"  Oh,  Janet,  the  ill  may  not  come 
in  our  time  !" 

"  It  may  not.  I  am  anxious  to  be- 
lieve it  may  not,  in  defiance  of  the 
unalterable  conviction  that  has  seated 
itself  within  me.  Let  it  pass,  Maria  ; 
talking  of  it  will  not  avert  it :  indeed, 
I  do  not  know  how  I  came  to  be  be- 
trayed into  it." 

"  But  you  did  not  finish  telling  me 
about  the  sounds  in  the  passages  ?" 
urged  Maria,  as  Janet  rose  from  her 
dusty  seat. 

"  There's  nothing  more  to  tell.  Pe- 
culiar sounds,  as  if  caused  by  the  wind, 
are  heard.  Moaning,  sighing,  rush- 
ing,— the  passages  at  times  seem  alive 
with  them.  It  is  said  to  come  as  a 
reminder  to  the  Godolphins  of  that 
worse  sound  that  will  sometime  be 
heard  when  Ashlydyat  shall  be  pass- 
ing away." 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYA  T . 


219 


"  But  you  don't  believe  thai  f" 
breathlessly  uttered  Maria. 

"Child,  I  can  scarcely  tell  you 
what  I  believe,"  was  Janet's  answer. 
"  I  can  only  pray  that  the  one-half  of 
what  my  heart  prompts  me  to  fear 
may  never  have  place  in  reality.  That 
the  noise  does  come  in  the  passages, 
and  without  any  apparent  cause,  is 
not  a  matter  of  belief,  or  non-belief: 
it  is  a  fact,  patent  to  all  who  have 
inhabited  Ashlydyat.  The  Verralls 
can  tell  you  so  :  they  have  had  their 
rest  broken  by  it." 

"And  it  is  not  caused  by  the  wind  ?" 

Janet  shook  her  head  in  dissent. 
"  It  has  come  on  the  calmest  and 
stillest  night,  when  there  has  not  been 
a  breath  of  air  to  move  the  leaves  of 
the  ash-trees." 

Bessy  turned  round  from  her  pas- 
time of  watching  Charlotte  Pain :  she 
had  taken  little  part  in  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"  I  wonder  at  you,  Janet.  You 
will  be  setting  Maria  against  Ashly- 
dyat. She'll  be  frightened  to  come 
into  it  should  it  lapse  to  George." 

Maria  looked  at  her  with  a  smile. 
"  I  should  have  no  fear  with  him,  su- 
perstitious or  otherwise.  If  George 
took  me  to  live  in  the  catacombs  I 
could  be  brave  with  him." 

Ever  the  same  blind  faith, — the  un- 
changed love  in  her  husband.  Better, 
far  better,  that  it  should  be  so  ! 

"  For  my  part,  I  am  content  to  take 
life  and  its  good  as  I  find  it ;  and  not 
waste  my  time  in  unprofitable  dreams," 
was  the  practical  remark  of  Bessy. 
"  If  any  ill  is  to  come,  it  must  come  ; 
but  there's  no  need  to  look  out  for  it 
beforehand."     ' 

"  There  must  be  dreamers  and  there 
must  be  workers,"  answered  Janet, 
picking  her  way  down  the  winding 
stairs.  "We  were  not  all  born  into 
the  world  with  the  same  constituted 
minds,  or  to  fulfil  the  same  parts  in 
life." 

The  day  passed  on.  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin  came  home  in  the  evening  to 
dinner,  and  said  George  had  not  re- 
turned. Maria  wondered.  It  grew 
later.     Margery  went  home  with  Me- 


ta, — who  thought  she  was  hardly  used 
at  having  to  go  home  before  her  mam- 
ma. 

"  I  had  rather  you  would  stay,  Ma- 
ria," Thomas  said  to  her.  "  I  par- 
ticularly wish  to  say  a  word  to  George 
to-night  on  business  matters  :  if  he 
finds  you  are  here  when  he  returns, 
he  will  come  up." 

George  did  find  so — as  you  already 
know.  And  when  he  emitted  Mrs. 
Charlotte  Pain,  her  torn  dress  and  her 
other  attractions,  he  bent  his  steps 
towards  Ashlydyat.  But,  instead  of 
going  the  most  direct  road  to  it,  he 
took  his  way  through  that  thicket 
where  he  had  had  the  encounter  an 
hour  previously  with  Charlotte.  There 
was  a  little  spice  of  mystery  about  it 
which  excited  Mr.  George's  curiosity. 
That  some  one  had  parted  from  her, 
he  felt  convinced,  in  spite  of  her  denial. 
And  that  she  was  in  a  state  of  excite- 
ment, of  agitation,  far  beyond  any 
thing  he  had  ever  witnessed  in  Char- 
lotte Pain,  was  indisputable.  George's 
thoughts  went  back,  naturally,  to  the 
previous  night, — to  the  figure  he  had 
seen,  and  whom  his  eyes,  his  convic- 
tion, had  told  him  was  Charlotte. 
She  had  positively  denied  it,  had  said 
she  had  not  quitted  the  drawing-room  ; 
and  George  had  found  her  there,  ap- 
parently composed  and  stationary. 
Nevertheless,  though  he  had  then 
yielded  to  her  word,  he  began  now  to 
suspect  that  his  own  conviction  had 
been  a  correct  one ;  that  the  dark  and 
partially  disguised  figure  had  been  no 
other  than  Charlotte  herself.  It  is 
probable  that,  however  powerful  was 
the  hold  Charlotte's  fascinations  may 
have  taken  upon  the  senses  of  Mr. 
George  Godolphin,  his  trust  in  her,  in 
her  truth  and  single-heartedness,  was 
not  of  the  most  implicit  nature.  Wrhat 
mystery  was  connected  with  Charlotte, 
or  who  she  met  in  the  thicket,  or 
whether  she  met  anybody,  she  best 
knew.  George's  curiosity  was  suf- 
ficiently excited  upon  the  point  to  in- 
duce him  to  walk  with  a  slow  step 
and  searching  eyes,  lest  happily  he 
might  come  upon  somebody  or  some- 
thing which  should  explain  the  puzzle. 


220 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


How  ruDS  the  old  proverb?  "A 
watched -for  thing  never  comes."  I 
forget  the  exact  words,  but  those  are 
near  enough  to  explain  the  meaning. 
In  vain  George  halted  and  listened ; 
in  vain  he  peered  into  every  part  of 
the  thicket  within  his  view.  Not  a 
step  was  to  be  heard,  not  a  creature 
to  be  seen  ;  and  he  emerged  from  the 
trees,  ungratified.  Crossing  the  open 
grass  by  the  turnstile  he  turned  round 
by  the  ash-trees,  to  the  Dark  Plain. 

Turned  round,  and  started.  George 
Godol  phin's  thoughts  had  been  on  other 
things  than  the  Shadow.  The  Shadow 
lay  there,  so  pre-eminently  black, 
so  menacing,  that  George  positively 
started.  Somehow — fond  as  he  was 
of  ignoring  the  superstition — George 
Godolphin  did  not  like  its  looks  that 
night. 

Upon  entering  Ashlydyat,  his  first 
interview  was  with  Thomas.  They 
remained  for  a  few  minutes  alone. 
Thomas  had  business  affairs  to  speak 
of:  and  George — it  is  more  than  prob- 
able— made  some  good  excuse  for  his 
day's  absence.  That  it  would  be  use- 
less to  deny  he  had  been  to  London, 
he  knew.  Charlotte  had  set  him  on 
his  guard.  Janet  and  Bessy  put  in- 
numerable questions  to  him  when  he 
joined  them,  on  the  score  of  his  ab- 
sence ;  but  he  treated  it  in  his  usual 
light,  joking  manner,  contriving  to  tell 
them  nothing.  Maria  did  not  say  a 
word  then :  she  left  it  until  they  should 
be  alone. 

"You  will  tell  me,  George, will  you 
not  ?"  she  gently  said,  as  they  were 
walking  home  together. 

"  Tell  you  what,  my  darling  ?" 
"  Oh,  George,  you  know  what/' — 
and  her  tone,  as  Mr.  George's  ears 
detected,  bore  its  sound  of  pain.  "If 
you  were  going  to  London  then,  when 
you  left  me,  why  did  you.  deceive  me 
by  saying  you  were  going  where  you 
did  say  ?" 

"  You  goose  !  Do  you  suppose  I 
said  it  to  deceive  you  ?" 

There  was  a  lightness,  an  untruth- 
fulness in  his  woi'ds,  in  his  whole  air 
and  manner,  which  struck  with  the 
utmost    pain     upon     Maria's    heart. 


"  "Why  did  you  say  it  ?"  was  all  she 
answered. . 

"Maria,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth,"  said 
he,  becoming  serious  and  confidential. 
"  I  wanted  to  run  up  to  town  on  a 
little  pressing  matter  of  business,  and 
I  did  not  care  that  it  should  become 
patent  in  the  bank.  Had  I  known 
that  I  should  be  away  for  the  day,  of 
course  I  should  have  told  Thomas : 
but  I  fully  intended  to  be  home  in  the 
afternoon :  therefore  I  said  nothing 
about  it.  I  missed  the  train,  or  I 
should  have  been  home." 

"  You  might  have  told  me,"  she 
sighed.  "  I  would  have  kept  your 
counsel." 

"  So  I  would,  had  I  thought  you 
deemed  it  of  any  consequence,"  re- 
plied George. 

Consequence  !  Maria  walked  on  a 
few  minutes  in  silence,  her  arm  lying 
very  spiritless  within  her  husband's. 
"  If  you  did  not  tell  me,"  she  resumed, 
in  a  low  tone,  "why  did  you  tell  Mrs. 
Fain  ?" 

"Mrs.  Pain's  a  donkey,"  was  George's 
rejoinder.  And  it  is  probable  Mr. 
George  at  that  moment  was  thinking 
her  one  :  for  his  tone,  in  its  vexation, 
was  real  enough.  "  My  business  in 
town  was  connected  with  Verrall,  and 
I  dropped  a  hint,  in  the  hearing  of 
Mrs.  Pain,  that  I  might  probably  fol- 
low him  to  town.  At  any  rate,  I  am  safe 
home  again,  Maria,  so  no  great  harm 
has  come  of  my  visit  to  London,"  he 
concluded,  in  a  gayer  tone. 

"  What  time  did  you  get  in,  George  ?" 
she  asked. 

"By  the  seven-o'clock  train." 

"  The  seven-o'clock  train,"  she  re- 
peated, in  surprise.  "And  have  only 
now  come  up  to  Ashlydyat  !" 

"  I  found  a  good  many  things  to  do 
after  I  got  home,"  was  Mr.  George's 
rejoinder. 

"  Did  you  see  Meta  ?  Margery 
took  her  home  at  eight  o'clock." 

Mr.  George  Godolphin  had  not  seen 
Meta.  Mr.  George  could  have  an- 
swered, had  it  so  pleased  him,  that 
before  the  child  reached  home,  he  had 
departed  on  his  evening  visit  to  Lady 
Godo'phin's  Folly. 


THE      SHADOW      0  P     A  S  II  L  Y  I>  Y  A  T  . 


221 


%       CHAPTER  XXXIU. 

THE   DEAD   ALIVE   AGAIN. 

Saturday  was  a  busy  day  at  Prior's 
Ash  ;  it  was  a  busy  day  at  the  bank- 
ing-house of  Godolphin,  Crosse,  and 
Godolphin.  Country  towns  and 
country  banks  always  are  more  busy 
ou  a  market-day. 

George  Godolphin  sat  in  the  man- 
ager's room,  full  of  business.  Not 
much  more  than  a  week  had  elapsed 
since  that  visit  of  his  to  London ;  and 
it  was  now  Thomas's  turn  to  be  away. 
Thomas  had  gone  to  town.  His  errand 
there  was  to  consult  one  of  the  first 
surgeons  of  the  day,  on  the  subject  of 
his  own  health.  Not  so  much  that 
he  had  hope  from  the  visit,  as  that  it 
would  be  a  satisfaction  to  his  family 
to  have  made  it. 

George  Godolphin  was  full  of  busi- 
ness. Full  of  talking  also.  A  hearty 
country  client,  one  who  farmed  a  great 
number  of  acres,  and  generally  kept  a 
good  round  sum  in  the  bank's  coffers, 
was  with  him.  What  little  point  of 
business  he  had  had  occasion  to  see 
one  of  the  partners  upon,  was  con- 
cluded, and  he  and  George  were  mak- 
ing merry  together,  enjoying  a  gossip 
as  to  the  state  of  affairs  in  general  and 
particular,  out-door  and  in.  Never  a 
man  more  free  from  care  (if  appear- 
ances might  be  trusted)  than  George 
Godolphin  !  When  that  hearty,  hon- 
est farmer  went  forth,  he  would  have 
been  willing  to  testify  that,  of  carking 
care,  George  possessed  none. 

As  he  went  out,  George  sat  down  and 
bent  over  some  account-books.  His 
face  had  changed.  Lines,  of  what 
looked  worse  than  care,  grew  out  full 
in  it,  and  he  lifted  his  hand  to  his 
brow  with  a  weary  gesture.  Another 
minute,  and  he  was  interrupted  again. 
He  did  not  get  much  peace  on  a  mar- 
ket-day. 

"Lord  Averil  wishes  to  see  you, 
sir,"  said  one.  of  the  clerks.  It  was 
Isaac  Hastings. 

To  any  other  announced  name, 
George  Godolphin's  ready  answer 
would   have   been,   "Show  him   in." 


To  that  of  Lord  Averil  he  evidently 
hesitated,  and  a  sudden  flush  dyed  his 
face.  Isaac,  keen  in  observation  as 
was  his  father,  as  was  his  sister, 
Grace,  noticed  it.  To  him,  it  looked 
like  a  flush  of  shrinking  fear. 

"  Did  he  ask  for  me  ?" 

"  He  asked  for  Mr.  Godolphin,  sir. 
He  says  it  will  be  the  same  thing  if 
he  sees  you.      Shall  I  show  him  in  ?" 

"Of course, "replied George.  "What 
do  you  stop  for  ?" 

He  rose  from  his  seat ;  he  put  a 
chair  or  two  in  place  ;  he  turned  to 
the  table,  and  laid  rapidly  some  of  its 
papers  one  upon  another, — all  in  a  fuss 
and  bustle,  not  in  the  least  character- 
istic of  George  Godolphin.  Isaac 
thought  his  master  must  have  lost  his 
usual  presence  of  mind.  As  to  the 
reproach  addressed  to  himself,  "What 
do  you  stop  for  ?" — it  had  never  been 
the  custom  to  show  clients  into  the 
presence  of  the  partners  without  first 
asking  for  permission. 

Lord  Averil  came  in.  George,  only 
in  that  short  time,  had  grown  entirely 
himself  again.  They  chatted  a  minute 
of  passing  topics,  and  Lord  Averil 
mentioned  that  he  had  not  known, 
until  then,  that  Mr.  Godolphin  was  in 
London. 

"  He  went  up  on  Thursday,"  ob- 
served George.  "  I  expect  he  will  be 
back  early  in  the  week." 

"  I  intend  to.  be  in  London  myself 
next  week,"  said  Lord  Averil.  "  Will 
it  be  convenient  for  me  to  have  those 
bonds  of  mine  to-day  ?"  he  continued. 

A  sudden  coursing  on  of  all  George's 
pulses, — a  whirling  rush  in  his  brain. 
"  Bonds  ?"  he  mechanically  answered. 

"  The  bonds  of  that  stock  which  your 
father  bought  for  me  years  ago,"  ex- 
plained Lord  Averil.  "  They  were 
deposited  here  for  security.  Don't 
you  know  it  ?" — looking  at  George's 
countenance,  which  seemed  to  speak 
only  of  perplexity.  "  Mr.  Godolphin 
would  know." 

"  Oh  yes,  yes,"  replied  George, 
catching  up  his  breath  and  his  courage. 
"  It  is  all  right :  I  did  not  remember 
for  the  moment.  Of  course — the  de- 
posited bonds." 


222 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


"I  am  thinking:  of  selling  out,"  said 
Lord  Averil.  "Indeed,  I  have  been 
for  some  time  thinking  of  it,  but  have 
idly  put  it  off.  If  it  would  be  quite 
convenient  to  give  me  the  bonds,  I 
would  take  them  to  town  with  me.  I 
shall  go  on  Monday  or  Tuesday." 

Now,  George  Godolphin,  rally  j^our 
wits!  What  are  you  to  answer? 
George  did  rally  them,  after  a  lame 
fashion.  Confused  words,  which  neither 
he  nor  Lord  Averil  precisely  under- 
stood— to  the  effect  that  in  Thomas 
Godolphin's  absence,  he,  George,  did 
not  know  exactly  where  to  put  his 
hand  upon  the  securities — came  forth. 
So  Lord  Averil  courteously  begged 
him  not  to  take  any  trouble  about  it. 
He  would  let  them  remain  until  an- 
other opportunity. 

He  shook  hands  cordially  with 
George,  and  went  out,  with  a  mental 
comment,  "  Not  half  the  man  of  busi- 
ness that  his  brother  is,  and  his  father 
was :  but  wondrously  like  Cecil !" 
George  watched  the  door  close.  He 
wiped  the  great  dewclrops  which  had 
gathered  on  his  face  ;  he  looked  round 
with  the  beseeching  air  of  one  seeking 
relief  from  some  intense  pain.  Had 
Lord  Averil  persisted  in  his  demand, 
what  would  have  remained  for  him? 
Those  are  the  moments  in  which  man 
has  been  tempted  to  resort  to  the  one 
irredeemable  sin, — self-destruction. 

The  door  opened  again,  and  George 
gave  a  gasp  like  one  in  an  agony.  It 
was  only  Isaac  Hastings.  "  Mr.  Hurde 
wishes  to  know,  sir,  whether  those 
bills  are  to  go  up  to  Glyn's  to-day  or 
Monday  ?" 

"  They  had  better  go  to-day,"  re- 
plied George.  "  Has  Mr.  Barnaby 
been  in  to-day  ?"  he  added,  as  Isaac 
was  departing. 

"Not  yet." 

"  If  he  does  not  come  soon,  some 
one  must  go  down  to  the  corn-market 
to  him.  He  is  sure  to  be  there.  That 
is,  if  he  is  in  town  to-da}r." 

"I  know  he  is  in  town,"  replied 
Isaac.  "  I  saw  him  as  I  was  coming 
back  from  dinner.  He  was  talking  to 
Mr.Verrall." 


"  To  Mr.  Yerrall !"  almost  should 
George,  looking  up  as  if  he  was  elec- 
trified into  life.     "  Is  he  back  ?" 

"  He  is  back,  sir.  I  think  he  had 
but  arrived  then.  He  was  coming 
from  the  way  of  the  railway-station.'' 

"You  are  sure  it  was  Mr  Yerrall?" 
reiterated  George. 

Isaac  Hastings  smiled.  What  could 
make  Mr.  George  Godolphin  so  eager? 
"I  am  sure  it  was  Mr. Yerrall." 

George  felt  as  if  a  whole  ton  weight 
of  care  had  been  lifted  oft*  him.  He 
had  been  so  long  in  the  habit  of  flying 
to  Mr.Yerrall  to  stave  off  his  difficul- 
ties, that  it  seemed  to  him  that  it 
would  only  cost  the  going  to  him  to 
stave  off  the  one  that  was  hanging 
over  him  now.  Mr.Yerrall  had  gen- 
erally accomplished  the  task  as  men 
of  his  profession  do  accomplish  such 
tasks, — by  the  laying  up  an  awful  day 
of  reckoning  for  the  future.  That  day 
was  not  now  far  off  for  George  Godol- 
phin. 

The  bank  closed  later  on  Saturdays, 
and  George  remained  at  his  post  to 
the  end.  Then  he  dined.  Then,  at 
the  dusk  hour — nay,  at  the  dark  hour 
— he  went  out  to  Lady  Godolphin's 
Folly.  Why  was  it  that  he  rarely 
went  to  the  Folly  now,  save  under  the 
covert  shades  of  night  ?  Did  he  fear 
people  might  comment  on  his  inti- 
macy with  Mr.Yerrall,  and  seek  a  clue 
to  its  cause  ?  or  did  he  fear  the  world's 
gossip  on  another  score  ? 

George  ai'rived  at  Lady  Godol- 
phin's Folly,  and  was  admitted  to  an 
empty  room.  "Mr.  Yerrall  was  re- 
turned, and  had  dined  with  Mrs. 
Pain,  but  had  gone  out  after  dinner," 
the  servant  said.  He  had  believed 
Mrs.  Fain  to  be  in  the  drawing-room. 
Mrs.  Pain  was  evidently  not  there,  in 
spite  of  the  man's  searching  eyes.  He 
looked  into  the  next  room,  with  equal 
result. 

"  Perhaps,  sir,  she  has  stepped  out 
on  the  terrace  with  her  dogs  ?"  ob- 
served the  man. 

George — ungallant  as  it  was  ! — 
cared  not  where  Mrs  Pain  might 
have  stepped  at  the  present  time  :  his 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


223 


anxiety  was  for  Mr.  Verrall.  "  Have 
you  any  idea  when  your  master  will 
be  in  ?"  lie  inquired  of  the  servant. 

"  I  don't  think  he'll  be  long,  sir.  I 
heard  him  say  he  was  tired,  and 
should  get  to  bed  early.  He  may 
have  gone  to  Ashlydyat.  He  told 
Mrs.  Fain  that  he  had  met  Mr.  Go- 
dolphin  in  town  yesterday,  and  he 
should  call  and  tell  Miss  Godolphin 
that  he  was  better  in  London  than  he 
had  felt  here.  I  don't  know,  sir, 
though,  that  he  meant  he  should  call 
to-night." 

The  man  left  the  room,  and  George 
remained  alone.  He  drummed  on  the 
table  ;  he  tried  several  seats  in  suc- 
cession ;  he  got  up  and  looked  at  his 
face  in  the  glass.  A  haggard  face 
then.  Where  was  Verrall  ?  Where 
was  Charlotte  ?  She  might  be  able 
to  tell  him  where  Verrall  had  gone  and 
when  he  would  be  in.  Altogether, 
George  was  in  a  state  of  restlessness 
little  more  tolerable  to  endure  than 
torture. 

He  impatiently  opened  the  glass 
doors,  which  were  only  closed,  not 
fastened,  and  stood  a  few  moments 
looking  out  on  the  night.  He  gazed 
in  all  directions,  but  could  see  nothing 
of  Charlotte  :  and  Mr.  Verrall  did 
not  appear  to  come.  "  I'll  see,"  sud- 
denly exclaimed  George,  starting  oft', 
"  whether  he  is  at  Ashlyckrat." 

He  did  well.  Action  is  better  than 
inertness  at  these  moments.  Stand- 
ing outside  the  porch  at  Ashlydyat, 
talking  to  a  friend,  was  Andrew,  one 
of  their  servants.  When  he  saw 
George,  he  drew  back  to  hold  open 
the  door  for  him. 

"  Are  my  sisters  alone.  Andrew  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

George  scarcely  expected  the 
answer,  and  it  disappointed  him. 
"  Quite  alone  ?"  he  reiterated.  <;  Has 
no  one  called  on  them  to-night  ?" 

The  man  shook  his  head,  wonder- 
ing probably  who  Mr.  George  might 
be  expecting  to  call.  "  They  are  all 
alone,  sir.  Miss  Janet  has  got  one 
of  her  bad  headaches. " 

George  did  not  want  to  go  in,  Mr. 
Verrall  not  being  there,  and  this  last 


item  of  news  afforded  him  an  excuse 
for  retreating  without  doing  so.  "  Then 
I'll  ndt  disturb  her  to-night,"  said  he. 
"  You  need  not  say  that  I  came  up, 
Andrew." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

He  quitted  Andrew  and  turned  off 
to  the  left,  deep  in  thought,  striking 
into  a  covert  path.  It  was  by  no 
means  the  direct  road  back  to  the 
Folly  :  or  to  Prior's  Ash,  either.  In 
point  of  fact,  it  led  to  nothing  but  the 
Dark  Plain  and  its  superstition.  Not 
a  woman-servant  of  Ashlydyat,  per- 
haps not  one  of  its  men,  would  have 
gone  down  that  path  at  night :  for  its 
egress  at  the  other  end  was  close  to 
the  archway,  before  which  the  Shadow 
was  wont  to  show  itself. 

Why  did  George  take  it  ?  He  could 
not  have  told.  Had  he  been  asked 
why,  he  might  have  said  that  one  way, 
to  a  man  bending  under  a  sharp 
weight  of  trouble,  is  the  same  as 
another.  True.  But  the  path  led 
him  to  no  pai't  where  he  could  wish 
to  go  :  and  he  would  have  to  pick  his 
way  to  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly  amid 
the  gorse  bushes  of  the  Dark  Plain, 
right  over  the  very  Shadow  itself. 
These  apparently  chance  steps,  which 
seem  to  take  their  own  way  without 
any  premeditation  or  guidance  of  ours, 
do  sometimes  lead  to  strange  results. 

George  went  along  moodily,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  his  footfalls  slow 
and  light.  But  for  the  latter  fact,  he 
might  not  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
disturbing  a  certain  scene  that  was 
taking  place  under  cover  of  the  dark 
part  of  the  archway. 

Was  it  a  ghost,  enacting  it  ? 
Scarcely, — unless  ghosts  meet  in 
couples.  Two  forms,  ghostly  or  hu- 
man, were  there.  One  of  them  looked 
like  a  woman's.  It  was  in  dark 
clothes,  and  a  dark  shawl  was  folded 
over  the  head,  not,  however,  hiding 
the  features, — and  they  were  those  of 
Charlotte  Pain.  She,  at  any  rate, 
was  not  ghostly.  The  other,  George 
took  to  "be  Mr.  Verrall.  He  was 
leaning  against  the  brick- work,  in  ap- 
parently as  hopeless  a  mood  as  George 
himself  was  in. 


224 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


They  were  holding  a  quarrel. 
Strange  that  they  should  leave  the 
house  and  come  to  this  lonely  spot  in 
the  grounds  of  Ashlydyat,  to  hold  it ! 
Charlotte  was  evidently  in  one  of  her 
angry  tempers.  She  paced  to  and 
fro  underneath  the  archway,  some- 
thing like  a  restrained  tiger,  pouring 
forth  a  torrent  of  sharp  words  and  re- 
proaches, all  in  a  suppressed  tone. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  she  said, 
were  the  first  distinct  words  of  anger 
George  catfght.  But  her  companion 
interrupted  her,  his  tone  one  of  mourn- 
ing and  humility, 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Char- 
lotte  " 

The  start  made  by  George  Godol- 
phin  at  the  tones  of  the  voice,  the  in- 
voluntary sound  of  utter  astonishment 
that  escaped  him,  disturbed  them. 
Charlotte,  with  a  cry  of  terror,  darted 
one  way  :  her  companion  another. 

But  the  latter  was  not  quick  enough 
to  elude  George  Godolphin.  Spring- 
ing forward,  George  caught  him  in 
his  powerful  grasp,  really  to  assure 
himself  that  it  was  no  ghost,  but 
genuine  flesh  and  blood.  Then  George 
turned  the  face  to  the  starlight,  and 
recognized  the  features  of  the  dead- 
and-gone,  Mr.  Rodolf  Pain. 


CHAPTER    XXXIY. 

A  WELCOME  HOME. 

The  return  of  a  husband,  popularly 
supposed  to  be  dead  and  out  of  the 
way  for  good,  may  be  regarded  by 
the  wife  as  a  charming  blessing  of 
some  special  providence,  or  as  a  source 
of  annoying  embarrassment,  according 
to  the  lady's  private  feelings  on  the 
subject.  There's  no  doubt  that  Char- 
lotte Pain  looked  upon  it,  and  most 
unmistakably  so,  in  the  latter  light. 
Charlotte  knew,  better  than  the  pub- 
lic, that  Mr.  Rodolf  Pain  was  not 
dead  ;  but  she  had  fully  believed  him 
to  be  as  surely  out  of  her  way  as 
thoucfh  death   and  some  safe  metro- 


politan cemetery  had  irrevocably  claim- 
ed him.  Whatever  trifling  accident 
may  have  happened  to  put  Mr.  Rodolf 
Pain  and  the  British  criminal  law  at 
issue,  Charlotte,  at  any  rate,  had  as- 
sumed it  one  not  to  be  conveniently 
got  over,  except  by  the  perpetual  exile 
of  the  gentleman  from  the  British 
shores.  When  the  little  affair  had 
occurred,  and  Mr.  Rodolf  bad  saved 
himself  and  his  liberty  by  only  a  hair- 
breadth, choosing  a  foreign  exile  and 
a  false  name  in  preference  to  some 
notoriety  at  a  certain  court  (a  court 
which  does  not  bear  a  pleasant  sound, 
and  rises  ominous  and  dark  and  gloomy 
in  the  heart  of  the  city;  which  holds 
an  hour's  festival  now  and  then  on  a 
Monday  morning,  when  the  sober  part 
of  London  are  breakfasting,  and  the 
curious  part  are  flocking  to  the  scene 
in  shoals,  in  the  gratification  of  their 
eyes  and  their  minds),  it  had  pleased 
Charlotte  and  those  connected  with 
her  to  give  out  that  Mr.  Rodolf  Pain 
had  died.  In  Mr.  Rodolf  Pain's  going 
out  of  the  world  by  death,  there  was 
certainly  no  disgrace,  provided  that 
he  went  out  naturally ;  that  is,  with- 
out what  may  be  called  malice  pre- 
pense on  his  own  part.  But,  for  Mr. 
Rodolf  Pain  to  be  compelled  to  make 
his  exit  from  London  society  after 
another  fashion,  was  quite  a  different 
affair, — an  affair  which  could  never 
have  been  tolerated  by  Charlotte  :  not 
on  his  score,  but  on  her  own.  Any 
superfluous  consideration  for  him, 
Charlotte  had  never  been  troubled 
with.  Before  her  marriage,  she  had 
regarded  him  in  the  light  of  a  non- 
entity ;  since  that  ceremony,  as  an 
incumbrance.  Therefore,  on  the  whole, 
Charlotte  was  tolerably  pleased  to  get 
rid  of  him,  and  she  played  her  role 
of  widow  to  perfection.  No  incon- 
venient disclosure,  as  to  the  facts  of 
his  hasty  exit,  had  come  out  to  the 
public,  it  having  fortunatelyliappened 
that  the  transaction,  or  transactions, 
which  led  to  it,  had  not  been  done  in 
his  own  name.  To  describe  Char- 
lotte's dismay  when  he  returned,  and 
she  found  her  fond  assumption  of  his 
perpetual  exile  to  have  been  a  false 


T  II  K      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


225 


security,  would  take  a  cleverer  pen 
■  than  mine.  No  other  misfortune, 
known  to  earth,  could  have  been  look- 
ed upon  by  Charlotte  as  so  dire  a 
calamity.  The  blowing-up  of  Prior's 
Ash,  herself  included,  by  some  sprung 
mine,  or  the  swallowing  it  down  by 
an  earthquake,  would  have  been  little, 
in  comparison. 

It  certainly  was  not  pleasant  to  be 
startled  by  a  faint  tap  at  the  un- 
screened window,  while  she  sat  under 
the  chandelier,  busy  at  what  she  so 
rarely  attempted,  some  useless  fancy- 
work.  Yet  that  was  the  unceremo- 
nious manner  in  which  her  husband 
made  his  return  known  to  her.  Char- 
lotte was  expecting  no  visitors  that 
night.  It  was  the  night  of  George 
Godolphin's  dinner-party,  at  which 
Mr.  Verrall  had  not  appeared,  having 
started  for  London  instead.  When 
the  tapping  came,  Charlotte  turned 
her  head  full  towards  the  window  in 
surprise.  Nobody  was  in  the  habit  of 
entering  that  way,  save  free-and-easy 
George  Godolphin  ;  he  would,  now 
and  then  :  sometimes  Mr.  Verrall. 
But  Charlotte  knew  of  George's  din- 
ner, and  Mr.  Terrall  was  away.  .  She 
could  see  nothing  of  the  intruder  :  the 
room  was  ablaze  with  light ;  outside, 
it  was,  comparatively  speaking,  dark ; 
and  the  window  was  also  partially 
shaded  by  its  lace  curtains. 

The  tapping  came  again.  "  Very 
odd  !"  thought  Charlotte.  "  Come  in," 
she  called  out. 

Nobody  came  in.  There  was  no 
response  at  all  to  it  for  a  minute  or 
two.  Then  there  came  another  timid 
tapping. 

Charlotte's  dress  was  half  covered 
with  cotton.  She  had  been  ravelling 
out  a  crochet  mat,  and  the  long  line  of 
cotton  rested  upon  her.  She  rose,  let 
the  cotton  and  the  mat  (what  remained 
of  it  whole)  fall  to  the  ground,  walked 
to  the  window,  and  opened  it. 

At  the  first  moment  she  could  see 
nothing.  It  was  bright  moonlight, 
and  she  had  come  from  the  blazing, 
yellow,  garish  light  inside,  beside 
which  that  outer  light  was  so  cold  and 
pure.  Not  for  that  reason  could  she 
14 


see  nothing,  but  because  there  ap- 
peared to  be  nothing  to  see.  Shf 
ranged  her  eyes  in  vain  over  the  ter- 
race, over  the  still  landscape  beyond. 

"  Charlotte  !» 

It  was  the  faintest  possible  voice, 
and  close  to  her.  Faint  as  it  was, 
though,  there  was  that  in  its  tone 
which  struck  on  every  fibre  of  Char- 
lotte's frame  with  dismay.  Gathered 
fiat  against  the  walls  of  the  Folly, 
making  a  pretence  to  shelter  himself 
beyond  a  brilliant  cape-jessamine 
which  was  trained  there, — as  if  hoping 
that  any  straggling  eyes  might  take 
him  for  another  jessamine, — was  the 
slight  figure  of  a  man.  A  mere  shred 
of  a  man,  with  a  shrinking,  attenuated 
frame  :  the  frame  of  one  who  has  lived 
in  some  long  and  great  agony,  bodily 
or  mental ;  and  a  white  face  that 
shivered  as  he  stood. 

Not  more  white,  not  more  shivering 
than  Charlotte's.  Her  complexion, — 
well,  you  have  heard  of  it,  as  one  too 
much  studied  to  allow  any  vulgar 
changes  to  come  upon  it,  in  a  general 
way.  But  there  are  moments  in  a 
lifetime  when  Nature  asserts  her  su- 
premacy, and  Art  slinks  down  before 
her.  Charlotte's  face  turned  the  hue 
of  the  dead,  and  Charlotte's  dismay 
broke  forth  in  a  low,  passionate  wail. 
It  was  Rodolf  Pain. 

A  moment  of  terrified  bewilder- 
ment ;  a  torrent  of  rapid  words  ;  not 
of  sympathy,  of  greeting,  but  of  anger  ; 
and  Charlotte  was  pushing  him  off 
with  her  hands,  she  neither  knew  nor 
cared  whither.  It  was  dangerous  for 
him  to  be  there,  she  said.  He  must 
go. 

"  I'll  go  into  the  thicket,  Charlotte," 
he  answered,  pointing  to  the  close 
trees  on  the  left.  "  Come  to  me 
there." 

He  glided  off  towards  it  as  he  spoke, 
keeping  under  cover  of  the  walls. 
Charlotte,  feeling  that  she  should  like 
to  decline  the  invitation  had  she  dared, 
enveloped  her  head  and  shoulders  in 
a  black  shawl,  and  followed  him. 
Nothing  satisfactory  came  of  the  inter- 
view,— except  recrimination.  Char- 
lotte was  in  a  towering  passion  that 


226 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  H  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


he  should  have  ventured  back  at  all ; 
Rodolf  complained  that  between  them 
all  he  had  been  made  the  scapegoat. 
In  returning  home,  she  caught  sight 
of  George  Godolphin  approaching  the 
house,  just  as  she  was  about  to  steal 
across  the  lawn.  Keeping  under 
cover  of  the  trees,  she  got  in-doors 
by  a  back  entrance,  and  sat  down  to 
her  work  in  the  drawing-room,  pro- 
testing to  George,  when  he  was  ad- 
mitted, that  she  had  not  been  out. 
No  wonder  her  face  looked  white  1 

Her  interviews  with  Rodolf  Pain 
appeared  to  be  ill-chosen.  On  the 
following  night  she  met  him  in  the 
same  place  :  he  had  insisted  upon  it, 
and  she  did  not  dare  refuse.  More 
recrimination,  more  anger;  in  the 
midst  of  which,  George  Godolphin 
again  broke  upon  them.  Charlotte 
uttered  a  scream  in  her  terror,  and 
Rodolf  Pain  ran  away.  But  for  Char- 
lotte's laying  her  detaining  hands  on 
George,  the  returned  man  might  have 
been  discovered  then. 

A  few  days  more,  and  that  climax 
was  to  arrive.  The  plantation  appear- 
ing unsafe,  Rodolf  Pain  proposed  the 
archway.  There  they  should  surely 
be  unmolested  :  the  ghostly  fears  of 
the  neighborhood  and  of  Ashlydyat 
keeping  that  spot  at  bay.  And  there, 
two  or  three  times,  had  Charlotte  met 
him,  when  they  were  again  intruded 
upon,  and  again  by  George.  This 
time  to  some  purpose. 

George  Godolphin's  astonishment 
was  excessive.  In  his  wildest  flights 
of  fancy  he  had  never  given  a  thought 
to  the  suspicion  that  Rodolf  Pain  could 
be  alive.  Charlotte  had  been  no  more 
confidential  with  George  than  with  the 
rest  of  the  world.  Making  a  merit  of 
what  could  not  well  be  avoided,  she 
told  him  a  few  particulars  now. 

For,  when  she  looked  back  in  her 
flight,  and  saw  that  Rodolf  Pain  was 
fairly  caught,  that  there  was  no  further 
possibility  of  the  farce  of  his  death  be- 
ing kept  up  to  George,  she  deemed  it 
well  to  turn  back.  Better  bring  her 
managing  brains  to  the  explanation, 
than  leave  it  to  that  simple  calf,  whom 
she  had  the  honor  of  cabins;  husband. 


The  fact  was,  Rodolf  Pain  had  never 
been  half  cunning  enough,  half  rogue  . 
enough,  for  the  work  assigned  him  by 
Mr.  Verrall.  He — Mr.  Verrall — had 
always  said  that  Rodolf  had  brought 
the  trouble  upon  himself,  in  conse- 
quence of  trying  to  exercise  a  little 
honesty.  Charlotte  coincided  in  the 
opinion  :  and  every  contemptuous  epi- 
thet cast  by  Mr.  Verrall  to  the  un- 
fortunate exile,  Charlotte  fully  echoed. 
George  was  some  little  time  before 
he  could  understand  the  explanation, 
so  much  of  it  as  was  vouchsafed  him. 
They  stood  under  the  shade  of  the 
archway,  in  a  group,  Charlotte  keep- 
ing her  black  shawl  well  over  her  head 
and  round  her  face  ;  Rodolf,  his  arms 
folded,  leaning  against  the  inner  circle 
of  the  stonework. 

"  What  do  you  say  sent  you 
abroad  ?"  questioned  George,  some- 
what bewildered. 

"  It  was  that  wretched  business  of 
Appleby's,"  replied  Rodolf  Pain. 
"  You  must  have  heard  of  it.  The 
world  heard  enough  of  it." 

"Appleby — Appleby  ?  Yes,  I  re- 
member," remarked  George.  "A  nice 
swindle  it  was.  But  what  had  you  to 
do  with  it  ?" 

"  In  point  of  fact,  I  only  had  to  do 
with  it  at  second-hand,"  said  Rodolf 
Pain,  his  tone  one  of  bitter  meaning. 
"  It  was  Yen-all's  affair, — as  every 
thing  else  is.  I  only  executed  his 
orders." 

"But  surely  neither  you  nor  Ver- 
rall  had  any  thing  to  do  with  that 
swindling  business  of  Appleby's?" 
cried  George,  his  voice  as  full  of  amaze- 
ment as  the  other's  was  of  bitterness. 
Charlotte  interposed,  her  manner  so 
eager,  so  flurried,  as  to  impart  the  sus- 
picion that  she  must  have  some  per- 
sonal interest  in  it.  "Rodolf,  hold 
your  tongue  !  Where's  the  use  of 
reaping  up  this  old  speculative  non- 
sense to  Mr.  George  Godolphin  ?  He 
does  not  care  to  hear  about  it." 

"  I'd  reap  it  up  to  all  the  world  if  I 
could,"  was  Rodoif's  answer,  ringing 
with  its  own  sense  of  injury.  "  Ver- 
rall  told  me  in  the  most  solemn  man- 
ner that  if  things  ever  cleared,  through 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYA  T. 


227 


Appleby's  death,  or  in  any  other  way, 
so  as  to  make  it  safe  for  me  to  come 
back,  that  that  hour  he'd  send  for  me. 
Well:  Appleby's  dead  ;  has  been  dead 
these  six  months,  and  yet  he  leaves 
me  on,  on,  on,  there  in  the  New  World, 
without  so  much  as  a  notice  of  it. 
Now,  it's  of  no  use  your  growing 
fierce,  Charlotte !  I'll  tell  Mr.  George 
Godolphin,  if  I  please.  I  am  not  the 
patient  slave  you  helped  to  drive 
abroad  :  the  trodden  worm  turns  at 
last.  Do  you  happen  to  know,  sir, 
that  Appleby's  dead  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  Ap- 
pleby," replied  George.  "  I  remem- 
ber the  name  as  being  the  one  owned 
by  a  gentleman  who  was  subjected  to 
some  bad  treatment  in  the  shape  of 
swindling,  by  one  Rustin.  But  what 
had  vou  or  Verrall  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  Pshaw !"  said  Rodolf  Pain.  "  Ver- 
rall was  Rustin." 

George  Godolphin  opened  his  eyes 
to  their  utmost  width.  "  N — o  !"  he 
uttered  very  slowly,  certain  curious 
ideas  beginning  to  crowd  into  his  mind. 
Certain  remembrances  also. 

"He  was, — Charlotte,  I  tell  you  it 
is  of  no  use  :  I  will  speak.  What 
does  it  matter,  Mr.  George  Godolphin's 
knowing  it  ?  Verrall  was  the  real 
principal, — Rustin,  in  fact ;  I  the  os- 
tensible one.     And  I  had  to  suffer." 

"  Did  Appleby  think  you  were 
Rustin  1"  inquired  George,  quite  be- 
wildered. 

"Appleby,  at  one  time,  thought  I 
was  Verrall.  Oh,  I  assure  you  there 
were  wheels  within  wheels  at  work 
there.  Of  course  there  had  to  be,  to 
carry  such  a  concern  as  that  on.  There 
have  still.  Verrall,  you  know,  could 
not  be  made  the  scapegoat;  he  takes 
care  of  that;  besides,  it  "would  blow 
the  whole  thing  to  pieces,  any  evil 
falling  upon  him.  It  fell  upon  me, 
and  I  had  to  suffer  for  it,  and  abroad 
I  went.  I  did  not  grumble ;  it  would 
have  been  of  no  use  ;  had  I  stayed  at 
home  and  braved  it  out,  I  should  have 
been  sent  abroad,  I  suppose,  at  her 
Majesty's  cost •" 

Charlotte  interrupted  in  an  awful 
passion.     "  Have  you  no  sense  of  hu- 


miliation, then,  Rodolf  Pain,  that  you 
tell  these  strange  stories  ?  Mr.  George 
Godolphin,  I  pray  you  do  not  listen  to 
him  !" 

"  I  am  safe,"  replied  George.  "  Pain 
can  say  what  he  pleases.  It  is  safe 
with  me." 

"As  to  humiliation,  that  does  not 
fall  so  much  to  my  share  as  it  does  to 
another's,  in  the  light  I  look  at  it.  I 
was  not  the  principal ;  I  was  only  the 
scapegoat:  principals  rarely  are  made 
the  scapegoats  in  that  sort  of  business. 
Let  it  go,  I  say.  I  took  the  punish- 
ment without  a  word  :  but,  now  that 
the  man's  dead,  and  I  can  come  home 
with  safety,  I  want  to  know  why  I 
was  not  sent  for." 

"  I  don't  believe  the  man  is  dead," 
observed  Charlotte. 

"  I  am  as  sure  as  sure  can  be,  that 
he  is,"  said  Rodolf  Pain.  "  I  was 
told  it  from  a  sure  and  certain  source, 
somebody  who  came  out  there,  and 
who  used  to  know  Appleby.  He 
said  the  death  was  in  the  Times,  and 
he  knew  it  for  a  fact  besides. " 

"  Appleby  ?  Appleby  ?"  mused 
George,  his  thoughts  going  back  to  a 
long-past  morning,  when  he  had  been 
an  unseen  witness  to  Charlotte's  in- 
terview with  a  gentleman  giving  that 
name, — which  same  gentleman  had 
accosted  him  previously  in  the  porch 
of  Ashlydyat,  mistaking  it  for  the 
residence  of  Mr.  Verrall.  "I  re- 
member his  coming  down  here  once." 

"  I  remember  it  too,"  said  Rodolf 
Pain,  significantly,  "and  the  passion 
it  put  Verrall  in.  Verrall  thought 
his  address,  down  here,  had  oozed  out 
through  my  carelessness.  The  trou- 
ble that  we  had  with  that  Appleby, 
first  and  last !  It  went  on  for  years. 
The  bother  was  patched  up  at  times, 
but  only  to  break, out  again  ;  and  to 
send  me  into  exile  at  last." 

"  Does  Verrall  know  of  his  death  ?" 
inquired  George. 

"  There's  not  a  doubt  that  he  must 
know  of  it,"  was  the  reply  of  Rodolf 
Pain.  "  And  here's  Charlotte  says 
she  won't  ask  Verrall,  and  won't  tell 
him  I  am  here !  He  came  home  to- 
day." 


228 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


Charlotte  had  resumed  her  walk 
underneath  the  archway :  pacing  there, 
• — as  was  remarked  before, — like  a 
restrained  tiger.  She  took  no  notice 
of  Rodolf  's  last  speech. 

"  Why  not  tell  Yerrall  yourself  that 
you  are  here  ?"  was  the  sensible  ques- 
tion of  George. 

"  Well — you  see,  Mr.  George  Go- 
dolphin,  I'd  rather  not,  so  long  as 
there's  the  least  doubt  as  to  Apple- 
by's death.  /  feel  none  myself:  but 
if  it  should  turn  out  to  be  a  mistake, 
my  appearance  here  would  do  good 
neither  for  me  nor  for  Yerrall.  And 
Ye rrall's  a  dangerous  man  to  cross. 
He  might  kill  me  in  his  passion.  It 
takes  a  good  deal  to  put  him  in  one, 
but  when  it  does  come  it's  like  a 
tornado." 

"  You  acknowledge  there  is  a  doubt 
of  Appleby's  death,  then  !"  sarcasti- 
cally cried  Charlotte. 

"  Well,  I  say  that  it's  just  possible. 
It  was  the  not  being  fully  certain 
that  brought  me  back  in  this  clandes- 
tine way.  What  I  want  you  to  do 
is  to  ask  Yerrall  if  Appleby's  dead. 
I  believe  he  will  answer  'Yes.'  'Very 
well,'  then  you  can  say,  'Rodolf 
Pain's  come  home.'     And  if " 

"And  if  he  says  'No,  he  is  not 
dead,'  what  then  ?"  fiercely  interrupted 
Charlotte. 

"Then  you  can  tell  me  privately, 
and  I  must  depart  the  way  I  came. 
But  I  don't  depart  without  being 
satisfied  of  the  fact,"  pointedly  added 
Mr.  Pain,  as  if  he  had  not  entire  and 
implicit  reliance  upon  Charlotte's 
word.  "  My  firm  belief  is  that  he  is 
dead,  and  that  Yerrall  will  tell  you  he 
is  dead.  In  that  case  I  am  a  free  man 
to-morrow." 

Charlotte  turned  her  head  towards 
him,  terrible  anger  in  her  tone,  in  her 
face.  "  And  how  is  your  reappear- 
ance to  be  accounted  for  to  those  who 
look  upon  you  as  dead  ?" 

"1  don't  care  how,"  indifferently 
answered  Rodolf.  "  I  did  not  spread 
the  report  of  my  own  death.  If  you 
did,  you  can  contradict  it." 

"If  I  did   do   it,   it   was   to  save 


your  reputation,"  returned  Charlotte, 
scarcely,  able  to  speak  for  passion. 

"/know,"  said  Rodolf  Pain.  "You 
feared  something  or  other  might  come 
out  about  your  husband,  and  so 
thought  you'd  kill  me  off-hand.  Two 
for  yourself  and  one  for  me,  Char- 
lotte." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  If  my  coming  back  is  so  annoy- 
ing to  you,  we  can  live  apart,"  he 
resumed.  "  You  pretty  well  gave  me 
a  sickener  before  I  went.  As  you 
know." 

"  This  must  be  an  amusing  dialogue 
to  Mr.  George  Godolphin  !"  fumed 
Charlotte. 

"May  be,"  replied  Rodolf  Pain, 
his  tone  one  of  sad  weariness.  "  I 
have  been  so  hardly  treated  between 
you  and  Yerrall,  Charlotte,  that  I 
don't  care  who  knows  it." 

"  Where  are  you  staying  V  asked 
George,  wondering  whether  the  shady 
spots  about  Ashlydyat  sheltered  him 
in  the  day  as  well  as  in  the  night. 

"  Not  far  away,  sir.  At  a  roadside 
inn,"  was  the  answer.  "Nobody 
knew  me  much,  about  here,  in  the  old 
days  :  but,  to  make  assurance  doubly 
sure,  I  only  come  out  in  the  evening. 
Look  here,  Charlotte.  If  you  refuse 
to  ask  Yerrall,  or  to  help  me,  I  shall 
go  to  London,  and  get  the  information 
there.  I  am  not  quite  without  friends 
in  the  great  town  :  they'd  receive  me 
better  than  you  have." 

"  I  wonder  you  did  not  go  there  at 
once,"  snapped  Charlotte. 

"It  was  natural  that  I  should  go 
first  where  my  wife  was,"  returned 
Rodolf  Pain.  "  Even  though  she  had 
not  been  the  most  affectionate  of 
wives  to  me." 

Charlotte  was  certainly  not  show- 
ing herself  particularly  affectionate 
then,  whether  she  had,  or  not,  in  the 
past  days.  Truth  to  say,  whatever 
may  have  been  her  personal  predilec- 
tion or  non-predilection  for  the  gen- 
tleman, his  return  had  set  all  her  fears 
on  the  tremble.  His  personal  safety 
was  imperilled  ;  and,  with  that,  dis- 
grace loomed  in  ominous  attendance ; 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


229 


a  disgrace  which  would  be  reflected 
upon  Charlotte.  Could  she  have  sent 
Rodolf  Paiu  flying  on  some  impossi- 
ble electric  wires  to  the  remotest 
region  of  the  known  and  unknown 
globe,  she  would  have  done  it  then. 

Leaving  them  to  battle  out  their 
dispute  alone,  George  GrodoIpJhin  bent 
his  steps  to  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly. 
Walking  over  the  very  Shadow,  black 
as  jet,  treading  in  and  out  amid  the 
dwarf  bushes,  which,  when  regarded 
from  a  distance,  looked  so  like  graves, 
he  gained  the  Folly,  and  rang. 

The  servant  admitted  him  to  the 
drawing-room.  It  was  empty  as  be- 
fore. "  Is  Mr.  Verrall  not  come  in  ?" 
asked  George. 

"  He  is  come  in,  sir.  I  thought  he 
was  here.     I'll  see  for  him." 

George  sat  on  alone.  Presently  the 
man  came  back.  "  My  master  has 
retired  for  the  night,  sir." 

"What!  Gone  to  bed?"  cried 
George. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Did  you  tell  him  I  had  been  here 
when  he  came  in  ?" 

"  1  told  him  you  had  been  here,  sir. 
In  fact,  I  thought  you  were  here  still. 
I  did  not  know  you  had  left." 

"Did  Mr.  Verrall  tell  you  now  that 
he  could  not  see  me  ?" 

"  He  told  me  to  say  that  he  had  re- 
tired for  the  night,  sir." 

"  Is  he  in  bed  ?"  questioned  George. 

The  servant  hesitated.  "  He  spoke 
to  me  through  the  door,  sir.  He  did 
not  open  it." 

George  caught  up  his  hat,  the  very 
movement  of  his  baud  showing  dis- 
pleasure. "  Tell  your  master  that  I 
shall  be  here  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning.     I  want  to  see  him." 

He  passed  out,  a  conviction  upon 
his  mind — though  he  could  scarcely 
tell  why  it  should  have  arisen — that 
Mr.  Verrall  had  not  retired  for  the 
night,  but  that  he  had  gone  up-stairs 
merely  to  avoid  him.  The  thought 
angered  him  excessively.  When  he 
had  gone  some  little  distance  beyond 
the  terrace,  he  turned  and  looked  at 
the  upper  windows  of  the  house. 
There  shone  a  light  in  Mr.  Verrall's 


chamber.  "  Not  in  bed,  at  any  rate," 
thought  George.  He  might  have  seen 
me  if  he  would.   I  shall  tell  him " 

A  touch  upon  George's  arm.  Some 
one  had  glided  silently  up.  He  turned 
and  saw  Charlotte. 

"  You  will  not  betray  the  secret 
you  have  learnt  to-night  ?"  she  pas- 
sionately whispered. 

"  Is  it  likely  ?"  he  asked. 

"  He  is  only  a  fool,  you  know,  at  the 
best,"  was  her  next  complimentary 
remark.  "  But  fools  give  more  trouble 
sometimes  than  sage  people." 

"  You  may  depend  upon  me,"  was 
George's  rejoinder.     "  Where  is  he  ?" 

"  Got  rid  of  for  the  night,"  said 
Charlotte,  in  a  terribly  explosive  tone. 
"Are  you  going  in  to  see  Verrall  ?" 

"  No.  Verrall  declines  to  see  me. 
I  am  going  home.     Good-night." 

"  Declines  to  see  you  ?  He  is  tired, 
I  suppose.     Good-night,  George." 

George  Godolphin  walked  away  at 
a  sober  pace,  reflecting  on  the  events 
of  the  day, — of  the  evening.  That 
he  had  been  intensely  surprised  by  the 
resuscitation  of  Rodolf  Pain  was  in- 
disputable ;  but  George  had  too  much 
heavy  care  upon  him  to  cast  after  it 
more  than  a  passing  thought,  now 
that  the  surprise  was  over.  Rodolf 
Pain  held  a  very  small  space  in  the  es- 
timation of  George  Godolphin.  Char- 
lotte had  just  said  he  was  a  fool ; 
probably  George  shared  in  the  opinion. 

But,  however  much  he  felt  inclined 
to  dismiss  the  gentleman  from  his 
mind,  he  could  not  so  readily  dismiss 
a  certain  revelation  made  by  him. 
That  Rustin  was  Verrall.  Whoever 
"Rustin"  may  have  been,  or  what 
may  have  been  his  influence  on  the 
fortunes,  good  or  ill,  of  Mr.  George 
Godolphin,  it  boots  not  very  closely 
to  inquire.  That  George  had  had  deal- 
ings with  this  "  Rustin," — dealings 
which  did  not  bear  for  him  any  pleas- 
ant reminiscence, — and  that  George 
had  never  in  his  life  got  to  see  this 
Rustin,  are  facts  sufficient  for  us  to 
know.  Rustin  was  one  of  those  who 
had  contrived  to  ease  George  of  a  good 
deal  of  superfluous  money  at  odd  times, 
leaving  only  trouble  in  its  place.  Many 


230 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


a  time  had  George  prayed  Verrall's 
good  offices  with  his  friend  Rustin,  to 
hold  over  this  bill ;  to  renew  that 
acceptance.  Verrall  had  never  refused, 
and  his  sympathy  with  George  and 
abuse  of  Rustin  were  great,  when  his 
mediation  proved — as  was  sometimes 
the  case — unsuccessful.  To  hear  that 
this  Rustin  was  Verrall  himself,  opened 
out  a  whole  field  of  suggestive  specu- 
lation to  George.  Not  pleasant  specu- 
lation, you  may  be  sure. 

He  sat  himself  down,  in  his  deep 
thought,  on  that  same  spot  where 
Thomas  Godolphinhad  sat,  the  evening 
of  George's  dinner-party, — the  broken 
bench,  near  the  turnstile.  Should  he 
weather  the  storm  that  was  gathering 
so  ominously  above  his  head  ?  Was 
that  demand  of  Lord  Averil's  to-day 
the  first  rain-drop  of  the  parting 
clouds  ?  In  sanguine  moments, — and 
most  moments  are  sanguine  to  men  of 
the  light  temperament  of  George 
Godolphin, — he  felt  not  a  doubt  that 
he  should  weather  it.  There  are  some 
men  who  systematically  fling  care  and 
gloom  from  them.  They  cannot  look 
trouble  steadily  in  the  face :  they 
glance  aside  from  it;  they  do  not  see 
it  if  it  comes ;  they  imbue  it  with  the 
rosy  hues  of  hope  :  but,  look  at  it, 
they  do  not.  Shallow  and  careless  by 
nature,  they  cannot  feel  deep  sorrow 
themselves,  or  be  too  conscious  of  any 
wrong  they  inflict  on  others.  They 
may  bring  ruin  upon  the  world,  but 
they  go  on  jauntily  in  their  way. 
George  had  gone  on  in  his  way,  in  an 
easy,  gentlemanly  sort  of  manner,  de- 
nying himself  no  gratification,  and 
paying  little  heed  to  the  day  of  reck- 
oning that  might  come. 

But  on  this  night  his  mood  was 
changed.  Affairs  generally  were  wear- 
ing to  him  an  aspect  of  gloom  :  of 
gloom  so  preternaturally  dark  and 
hopeless,  that  his  spirits  were  weighed 
down  with  it.  For  one  thing,  this 
doubt  of  Verrall  irritated  him.  If  the 
man  had  played  him  false,  been  hold- 
ing the  cards  of  a  double  game,  why 
what  an  utter  fool  he,  George,  had 
been  !  How  long  he  sat  on  that  lonely 
seat  he  took  no  count :  as  long  as  his 


brother  had,  that  past  night.  The  one 
had  been  ruminating  on  his  forthcom- 
ing fate, — death  ;  the  other  was  lost 
in  the  anticipation  of  a  worse  fate, — 
disgrace  and  ruin.  As  he  rose  to  pur- 
sue his  way  down  the  narrow  and 
ghostly  Ash-tree  walk,  alow  cry  burst 
from  his  lips,  like  the  one  which  had 
been  wrung  from  Thomas  in  his  phys- 
ical agony. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THOSE   BONDS   AGAIN  ! 

A  short  while  elapsed.  Summer 
weather  began  to  show  itself  in  Prior's 
Ash,  and  all  things,  so  far  as  anybody 
saw  or  suspected,  were  going  on  as 
smooth  as  glass.  Not  a  breath  of  wind 
had  yet  stirred  up  the  dangerous  cur- 
rent ;  not  the  faintest  streak  of  black 
had  come  yet  in  the  fair  sky,  to  indi- 
cate that  a  storm  might  be  gathering. 
One  rumor,  however,  had  gone  forth, 
and  Prior's  Ash  mourned  sincerely, 
and  trusted  it  was  not  true, — the  state 
of  health  of  Thomas  Godolphin.  He 
attacked  with  an  incurable  complaint, 
as  his  mother  had  been  ?  Prior's  Ash 
believed  it  not. 

He  had  returned  from  his  visit  to 
town,  with  all  his  own  suspicions  con- 
firmed. But  the  medical  men  had 
seemed  to  think  that  the  fatal  result 
might  not  overtake  him  yet,  probably 
not  for  years.  They  enjoined  tranquil- 
lity upon  him,  both  of  mind  and  body, 
and  recommended  him  to  leave  the 
cares  of  business,  so  far  as  was  prac- 
ticable, to  other  people.  Thomas 
smiled  when  he  recited  this  piece  of 
advice  to  George.  "  I  had  better  re- 
tire upon  my  fortune,"  said  he,  jo- 
kingly. 

"  Do  so,"  cried  George,  impulsively. 
"That  is" — for  a  disagreeable  con- 
sciousness came  upon  him,  as  he 
spoke,  that  Thomas's  "fortune,"  if 
looked  for,  might  be  found  more  easy 
to  talk  of  than  to  realize — "you  can 
virtually  retire,  by  remaining  quietly 


THE      S  II  A  DOW      OF      A  8  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


231 


at  Ashlydyat.  Don't  conic  down  to 
the  bank.  I  can  manage  quite  well 
without  you." 

Thomas  shook  his  head.  "  So  long 
as  I  am  at  all  capable,  George,  I  shall 
not  give  np.  I  believe  it  is  my  duty 
not  to  do  so.  If  what  the  doctors 
say  be  correct — that  I  may  live  on  in 
my  present  state,  or  nearly  in  my  pres- 
ent state,  for  years — you  may  be  an 
older  and  a  wiser  man  by  the  time  you 
are  left  alone.  When  you  shall  have 
gained  gray  hair,  George,  and  a  stoop 
in  the  shoulders,  Prior's  Ash  will  be 
thinking  you  a  stronger  and  a  better 
man  than  1  have  ever  been." 

George  made  no  reply.  He  knew 
which  had  been  the  best  man,  himself 
or  his  brother. 

Every  thing,  I  say,  seemed  to  go  on 
in  its  old  routine.  Thomas  Godolphin 
came  to  business  ;  not  every  day,  but 
frequently.  George  gave  his  dinner- 
parties, and  rode  as  much  as  ever  with 
Charlotte  Pain.  What  Charlotte  had 
done  with  her  husband,  was  her  affair. 
He  no  longer  disturbed  the  night  still- 
ness of  the  Dark  Plain,  or  of  Lady 
Godolphin's  Folly  ;  and  not  a  suspi- 
cion, of  his  unwelcome  revival  from 
the  dead,  had  transpired  beyond 
George  Godolphin.  Charlotte  casu- 
ally said  one  day  to  George  that  Ro- 
dolf  was  in  London.  Perhaps  he 
was. 

Yes,  gay  as  ever,  in  the  day,  was 
George  Godolphin.  If  he  had  care, 
he  kept  it  to  himself,  and  nobody  saw 
or  suspected  it.  George  was  persuad- 
able as  a  child  ;  seeing  little  farther 
than  his  own  nose  ;  and  Mr.  Yerrall 
had  contrived  to  lull  the  suspicions, 
awakened  by  the  words  of  Rodolf 
Pain.  Mr?  Yerrall  had  not  remained 
long  at  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly:  he 
was  soon  away,  and  Charlotte  had  it 
to  herself  again,  queenregnant.  George 
had  not  forgotten  to  pay  his  evening 
visits  there.  There  or  elsewhere,  he 
was  out  most  evenings.  And  when 
he  came  in,  he  would  go  into  the 
bank,  and  remain  alone  in  the  mana- 
ger's room,  often  for  hours. 

One  evening — it  was  the  greatest 
wonder   in   the    world — he    had   not 


gone  out.  At  eight  o'clock  he  had 
gone  into  the  bank  and  shut  himself 
in.  An  hour  afterwards,  Maria  knock- 
ed, and  he  admitted  her. 

George  was  at  a  large  table.  It  was 
covered  with  account-books.  Hard  at 
work  he  appeared  to  be,  making  en- 
tries with  his  pen,  by  the  light  of  his 
shaded  lamp.  "  How  busy  you  are, 
George  !"  she  cried. 

"  Ay,"  said  he,  pleasantly.  "  Let 
nobody  call  me  idle  again." 

"  But  why  need  you  do  it,  George  ? 
You  had  not  used  to  work  at  night." 

"  More  work  falls  to  my  score,  now.- 
Thomas  does  not  take  his  full  share," 
observed  George. 

"Does  it?  I  fancied  neither  you 
nor  Thomas  had  much  actual  work  to 
do.  I  thought  you  left  it  to  the  clerks. 
Isaac  laughed  at  me  one  day,  a  long 
while  ago,  when  I  said  something  about 
your  keeping  the  bank  accounts.  He 
asked  me  what  I  thought  clerks  were 
paid  for." 

"Never  mind  Isaac.  What  have 
3rou  come  in  for  ?  To  tell  me  you  are 
dull  ? — as  you  did  last  night." 

"No.  But  I  do  get  to  feel  very 
dull  in  an  evening.  You  are  scarcely 
ever  with  me  now,  George." 

"  Business  must  be  attended  to," 
responded  George.  "You  should  get 
some  visitors  in." 

"  They  would  not  be  you,"  was 
Maria's  answer,  simply  spoken.  "  I 
came  to  tell  you  now  that  papa  is 
here.  Have  you  time  to  come  and 
see  him  ?" 

George  knitted  his  brow.  The  pros- 
pect of  entertaining  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Hastings,  did  not  appear  to  have 
charms  for  him.  Not  that  he  al- 
lowed Maria  to  see  the  frown.  She 
continued  : 

"  Papa  has  been  talking  about  the 
Chisholm  property.  The  money  is 
paid  over,  and  he  has  brought  it  here 
for  safety." 

"  Brought  it  to-night  ?"  echoed 
George. 

"  Yes.  He  said  it  might  be  an  un- 
professional mode  of  doing  business, 
but  he  supposed  you  would  receive  it," 
she  added,  laughing. 


232 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


"  How  much  is  it  ?"  cried  George, 
— all  too  eagerly,  but  that  Maria  was 
unsuspicious. 

"  Nine — let  me  see — j^es,  I  think  he 
said  nine  thousand  pounds." 

George  Godolphin  closed  the  hooks 
before  him,  more  than  one  of  which 
was  open,  locked  them  up,  put  out  the 
lamp,  and  accompanied  his  wife  to  the 
dining-room. 

"  Will  you  let  me  lodge  some  money 
here  to-night  ?"  asked  Mr.  Hastings, 
as  he  shook  hands. 

"As  much  as  you  like,"  replied 
George,  laughing.  "We  can  accom- 
modate an  unlimited  amount." 

The  rector  took  out  a  large  pocket- 
book,  and  counted  down  some  bank- 
notes upon  the  table.  "  Brierly,  the 
agent,  brought  it  to  me  an  hour  ago," 
he  observed,  "  and  I  had  rather  your 
bank  had  charge  of  it  than  my  house. 
Nine  thousand  and  forty-five  pounds, 
Mr.  George." 

George  counted  the  notes  after  Mr. 
Hastings.  "I  wonder  Brierly  did 
not  give  a  check  for  it,"  he  observed. 
"  Did  he  bring  the  money  over  from 
Binham  ?" 

"  He  came  over  in  his  gig.  He 
said  it  had  been  paid  to  him  in  money, 
and  he  brought  it  just  as  it  was  paid. 
I'll  trouble  you  for  a  receipt,  Mr. 
George." 

George  carried  the  money  away 
and  came  back  with  the  receipt,  "It 
must  be  placed  to  your  account,  I 
suppose,  sir,"  he  observed. 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Mr.  Hast- 
ings. "  You  can't  place  it  to  the 
credit  of  the  little  Chisholms.  It  is 
the  first  time  I  ever  was  left  trustee," 
he  remarked,  "  and  I  hope  it  will  be 
the  last." 

"  Why  so  ?"  asked  George. 
"  Why  so  ?  Because  I  like  neither 
the  trouble  nor  the  responsibility.  As 
soon  as  my  co-trustee  returns,  the 
money  is  to  be  placed  out  on  approved 
tecurity  :  until  then,  you  must  take 
the  charge  of  it.  It  is  a  poor  sum, 
after  all,  compared  with  what  was  ex- 
pected " 

"  Very  poor,"  assented  George.  "  Is 
it  all  that  the  property  has  realized  ?" 


"Every  shilling, —  except  the  ex- 
penses. And  lawyers,  and  agents, 
and  auctioneers,  take  care  that  they 
shall  never  be  slight,"  added  Mr.  Hast- 
ings, his  lip  curling  with  the  cynical 
expression  that  was  sometimes  seen 
on  it. 

"  It's  their  trade,  sir." 
"  Ay.  What  a  cutting  up  of  pro- 
perty it  is,  this  forced  selling  of  an 
estate,  through  death  1"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Many  a  time  has  poor  Chisholm 
said  to  me,  in  his  last  illness,  '  There'll 
be  hard  upon  twenty  thousand  to  di- 
vide amongst  them,  when  it's  all  sold.' 
And  there  is  not  ten  !" 

"  I  suppose  every  thing  was  sold  ?" 
said  George. 

"  Every  thing.  House,  land,  ricks 
as  they  stood,  farming  stock,  cattle, 
and  furniture, — every  thing,  even  to 
the  plate  and  the  books.  The  will  so 
expressed  it.  I  suppose  Chisholm 
thought  it  best," 

"  Where  are  the  children,  papa  V 
asked  Maria, 

"  The  two  girls  are  at  school,  the  lit- 
tle boy  is  with  his  grandmother.  I 
saw  the  girls  last  week  when  I  was 
at  Binham." 

"  The  boy  is  to  be  a  clergyman,  is 
he  not,  papa  ?" 

The  rector  answered  the  question  in 
a  tone  of  rebuke.  "  When  he  shall  be 
of  an  age  to  choose,  should  he  evince 
liking  and  fitness  for  the  Church,  then 
he  is  to  be  allowed  to  enter  it, — not 
otherwise,  Maria." 

"  How  is  the  property  left  ?"  asked 
George. 

"  It  is  to  be  invested,  and  the  in- 
terest devoted  to  the  education  and 
maintenance  of  the  three,  the  boy  be- 
ing allowed  a  larger  sharfc  of  the  in- 
terest than  the  girls.  When  the  young- 
est, the  boy,  shall  be  of  age,  the  prin- 
cipal is  to  be  divided  equally  between 
them.  Such  are  the  terms  of  the 
will  ?" 

"  What  is  it  to  be  invested  in  ?" 

"  The  funds,  I  suppose.     It  is  left 

to  the  discretion  of  myself  and  Mr. 

Harknar.     I  shall  let  him  decide  :   he 

is  more  a  man  of  business  than  I  am." 

So    they   talked    on.     When    Mr. 


T  HE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


233 


Hastings,  a  short  while  before,  had 
found  himself  left  guardian  and  co- 
trustee to  the  children  of  a  friend  just 
deceased,  his  first  impulse  had  been  to 
decline  the  trust.  Eventually  he  had 
accepted  it.  The  other  gentleman 
named,  Mr.  Harknar,  had  gone  on 
business  to  one  of  the  Ionian  Islands, 
but  he  was  now  shortly  expected  home. 

An  hour  the  rector  sat  with  them, 
talking  of  the  orphan  Chisholms,  and 
of  other  matters.  When  he  took  his 
departure,  George  went  again  into  the 
bank,  and  sat  down  to  work  at  his 
books  by  the  light  of  the  shaded  lamp. 
He  was  certainly  more  attentive  to 
business  by  night  than  by  day. 

Once  more — it  was  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  following  day — Isaac  Hastings 
entered  the  manager's  room  to  an- 
nounce a  visitor  to  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin, — Lord  Averil. 

George  looked  up, — a  startled  ex- 
pression crossing  his  face.  It  was  in- 
stantly suppressed  :  but,  not  for  his 
very  life  could  he  have  helped  its  ap- 
pearance in  the  first  moment. 

"When  did  he  come  to  Prior's 
Ash  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Isaac.  "  I 
told  him  I  was  not  sure  but  you  were 
engaged,  sir.  I  had  thought  Mr.  Ark- 
wright  was  with  you.  Lord  Averil 
asked  me  to  come  and  see  :  he  partic- 
ularly wishes  to  see  you,  he  says. " 

"  I  am  engaged,"  replied  George, 
catching  at  the  excuse  like  a  drowning 
man  catching  at  a  straw.  "  That  is" 
— taking  out  his  watch — "  I  have  not 
time  now  to  see  him.  Tell  Lord  Av- 
eril I  am  particularly  engaged." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

Isaac  went  out  with  the  message, 
and  Lord  Averil  departed,  merely  say- 
ing that  he  would  call  again.  The  re- 
appearance of  Charlotte  Pain's  hus- 
band could  not  have  brought  more 
dire  dismay  to  that  lady  than  did  this 
reappearance  of  Lord  Averil  at  Pri- 
or's Ash  bring  to  George  Godolphin. 

Did  he  think  Lord  Averil  would 
never  favor  Prior's  Ash  with  his  pres- 
ence again  ?  It  is  hard  to  say  what 
foolish  thing  he  thought.  A  man, 
drowning   by   water,    does   catch    at 


straws  ;  and  a  man,  drowning  by  evil 
fortune,  catches  at  fantasies  equally 
frail  and  hopeless.  Lord  Averil  had 
been  in  town  for  the  last  month.  Once, 
during  that  time,  he  had  written  to 
have  those  deposited  deeds  sent  up  to 
him,  about  which  he  had  spoken  to 
Mr.  George  Godolphin.  George  had 
answered  the  letter  with  some  well- 
framed  excuse.  But  now  here  was 
Lord  Averil  back  at  Prior's  Ash — 
back  at  the  bank  !  Doubtless,  once 
more  in  quest  of  his  deeds. 

George  Godolphin  put  his  hand  to 
his  weary  brow.  His  ever-constant 
belief  was,  that  he  should  get  straight 
in  time.  In  time.  To  his  sanguine 
temperament,  time  would  prove  the 
panacea  for  all  his  ills.  If  he  could 
only  stave  off  present  difficulties,  time 
would  do  the  rest.  That  terrible  dif- 
ficulties were  upon  him,  none  knew 
better  than  he  :  but  the  worst  difficulty 
of  all  would  be  this  of  Lord  Averil's, 
should  exposure  come.  Short  as  George 
was  of  ready  cash, — it  may  seem  a  par- 
adox to  say  it  of  a  banker,  but  so  it 
was, — he  would  have  scraped  together 
every  shilling  from  every  available 
corner,  and  parted  with  it,  to  have  in- 
sured the  absence  of  Lord  Averil  from 
Prior's  Ash  for  an  indefinite  period. 

He  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  weary 
brow,  his  brain,  within,  working  tu- 
multously. If  he  must  see  Lord  Av- 
eril,— and  there  could  be  no  escape, — 
what  should  be  his  plea  for  the  non- 
production  of  those  deeds  ?  It  must 
be  a  plausible  one.  His  thoughts  were 
interrupted  by  a  rap  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  cried  George,  in  a  sadly 
hopeless  tone.  Was  it  Lord  Averil 
back  again  ? 

It  was  only  a  note, — a  three-cor- 
nered miniature  thing,  fastened  by  a 
silver  wafer.  No  business-communi- 
cation, that.  George  knew  the  writ- 
ing well. 

"Dear    Mr.  George: — Will   you 
ride  with  me  to-day  at  half-past  three, 
instead  of  four  ?     I'll  tell  you  my  rea- 
son then.     Lord  A.  is  back. 
"  Yours, 

"C.  P." 


234 


T  PI  E      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYD  Y  A  T . 


George  tore  the  note  into  fragments 
and  flung  them  into  the  paper-basket. 
It  was  ten  minutes  past  three  then. 
Glad  of  any  excuse  to  be  out  of  business 
and  its  cares,  he  hastened  things  away 
in  his  room,  and  left  it.  There  were 
moments  when  George  was  tempted 
heartily  to  wish  himself  out  of  it  for 
good,  safe  in  some  unapproachable 
island,  too  remote  from  civilization  to 
be  visited  by  the  world.  But  he  did 
not  see  his  way  clear  to  get  there. 

Look  at  him  as  he  rides  through 
the  town,  Charlotte  by  his  side,  and 
the  two  grooms  behind  !  Look  at  his 
fine  bay-horse,  his  gentlemanly  figure  ! 
— look  at  his  laughing  blue  eyes,  his 
wavy,  golden  hair,  at  the  gay  smile  on 
his  lips  as  he  turns  to  Charlotte  !  Can 
you  fancy  care  an  inmate  of  that  man's 
breast  ?  Prior's  Ash  did  not.  They 
were  only  content  to  admire  and  envy 
their  handsome  and  most  attractive 
banker,  George  Godolphin. 

They  rode  by  the  bank.  It  was  not 
often — indeed  it  was  very  rare — that 
they  passed  it  in  their  rides.  There 
were  plenty  of  other  ways,  without 
choosing  that.  George  never  would 
have  chosen  it  :  perhaps  he  had  the 
grace  to  think  that  his  frequent  rides 
with  Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain  need  not  be 
paraded  so  conspicuously  before  the 
windows  of  his  wife.  Charlotte, 
however,  had  a  will  of  her  own,  and 
sometimes  chose  to  exercise  it. 

As  good  luck  had  it,  or  ill-luck,  or 
no  luck  at  all,  Maria  happened  to  be 
at  the  drawing-room  window  to-day. 
Some  ladies  were  paying  her  a  visit, 
and  Meta — who  sometimes  got  in- 
dulged as  an  only  child  does  get 
indulged — made  one  in  the  drawing- 
room.  She  caught  sight  of  her  papa, 
forthwith  climbed  upon  a  chair  to  see 
him  better,  and  leaned  from  the  open 
window,  clapping  her  hands.  "Papa  ! 
papa  !" 

Maria  sprang  to  her  to  hold  her  in. 
She  was  a  child  who  had  little  sense 
of  danger.  Had  George  held  out  his 
arms  then,  and  said,  "Jump  out  to  me, 
Meta,"  she  would  have  taken  the  leap 
fearlessly.     Maria  caught  her  round 


the  waist,  and  the  visitors  came  for- 
ward to  see. 

Charlotte  threw  up  a  triumphant 
glance.  One  of  those  curiously  tri- 
umphant glances  that  she  was  rather 
fond  of  giving  Mrs.  George  Godolphin. 
Maria  bowed  gravely.  An  idea — a 
faint  idea,  glancing  at  no  ill — had  been 
growing  over  her  lately  that  her  hus- 
band passed  more  time  with  Charlotte 
Pain  than  was  absolutely  necessary. 
George  smiled  at  his  wife,  lifted  his 
hat  to  the  ladies  by  her  side,  and 
waved  a  kiss  to  Meta. 

The  red  blood  had  mantled  in  his 
cheek.  At  what  ?  At  Charlotte's  tri- 
umphantly saucy  look, — which  he  had 
not  failed  to  catch, — or  at  his  wife's 
grave  one  ?  Or  at  the  sight  of  a  gen- 
tleman who  stood  on  the  pavement, 
saluting  them  as  they  passed  ?  It  was 
the  Viscount  Averil.  George  saluted 
again,  and  rode  on  with  a  smooth 
brow  and  a  face  bright  as  day. 

Considerably  later  ;  just  before  five, 
in  fact,  when  the  bank  closed,  Lord 
Averil  presented  himself  at  it  again. 
Had  Mr.  George  Godolphin  returned? 
If  so,  could  he  see  him  ? 

Mr.  George  had  not  come  in.  Mr. 
Hurde  came  forward  and  inquired  if  it 
was  any  thing  that  he  could  do  for  his 
lordship. 

Lord  Averil  had  known  Mr.  Hurde 
a  long  while.  He  had  seen  him  in  his 
place  there  as  long  as  he  had  banked 
with  Godolphin,  Crosse,  and  Godol- 
phin. He  supposed  he  was  a  confi- 
dential clerk  :  and,  in  point  of  fact, 
Mr.  Hurde  was  so  to  a  great  extent. 

"  You  hold  some  bonds  of  mine," 
said  Lord  Averil.  "  Bonds  of  some 
stock  which  Sir  George  Godolphin 
purchased  for  me.  Did  you  know 
any  thing  of  it?" 

"I  remember  the  transaction  quite 
well,  my  lord,"  replied  Mr.  Hurde. 

"  I  want  the  bonds  delivered  up  to 
me.     Can  I  have  them  ?" 

"Certainly.  Your  lordship  can  have 
them  whenever  you  please.  They  are 
in  your  case,  in  the  strong-room." 

"  I  should  have  liked  them  to-day, 
if  possible,"  replied  Lord  Averil. 


T  IT  E      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


235 


"There  will  be  no  difficulty  at  all, 
my  lord.  Mr.  George  Godolphin  can 
deliver  them  to  you  as  soon  as  he 
comes  in." 

"  Will  he  be  in  soon,  think  you  ?" 

"  He  is  sure  not  to  be  very  long, 
my  lord.  I  have  to  see  him  before  I 
leave." 

"  Then  I  think  I'll  wait,"  said  Lord 
Averil. 

He  was  shown  into  the  bank-parlor, 
and  left  there.  At  five  the  clerks 
quitted  the  bank :  it  was  usual  for 
them  to  do  so.  Mr.  Hurde  waited. 
In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  George 
came  in. 

A  few  minutes  given  to  the  busi- 
ness for  which  Mr.  Hurde  had  re- 
mained, and  then  he  spoke.  "  Lord 
Averil  is  waiting  to  see  you,  sir." 

"  Lord  Averil  ?"  cried  George,  in  a 
hasty  tone.     "  Waiting  now  ?" 

"  He  is  in  the  parlor,  sir.  He  asked 
if  he  could  have  his  bonds  given  up 
to  him.  I  said  I  thought  he  could, 
and  he  replied  that  he  would  wait." 

"  Then  you  had  no  business  to  say 
any  thing  of  the  sort,"  burst  forth 
George,  in  so  vehement  a  tone  as  to 
astonish  the  sober  cashier.  "  It  may 
not  be  convenient  to  lay  one's  hands 
upon  the  bonds  at  a  minute's  notice, 
Hurde,"  he  more  quietly  added,  as  if 
he  would  soothe  down  or  atone  for 
his  anger. 

"  They  are  in  Lord  Averil's  box  in 
the  strong-room,  sir,"  said  the  old 
clerk,  supposing  his  master  must  have 
temporarily  forgotten  where  the  said 
bonds  were  placed.  "  Mr.  Godolphin 
was  speaking  to  me  about  those  bonds 
the  other  day." 

"  What  about  them  ?"  inquired 
George,  striving  to  put  the  question 
easily. 

"  It  was  nothing  particular,  sir. 
He  was  only  mentioning  their  in- 
creased value  :  how  they  had  gone  up 
in  the  market." 

George  said  no  more.  He  turned 
from  the  office  and  halted  before  the 
door  of  the  parlor.  Halted  to  collect 
his  brains.  One  hand  was  on  the 
handle  of  the  door,  the   other  on   his 


brow.  Lord  Averil  rose,  and  shook 
hands  cordially. 

"I  am  come  to  bother  you  again 
about  my  bonds,  Mr.  George.  I  don't 
care  to  keep  that  stock,  and  the  pres- 
ent is  a  most  favorable  opportunity  to 
sell." 

"  They'll  go  higher  yet,"  observed 
George. 

"  Will  they?  They  tell  me  different 
in  London.  The  opinion  there,  is,  that 
they  will  begin  to  fall." 

"  All  rubbish,"  said  George.  "A 
canard  got  up  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change." 

"  Well,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
sell,"  observed  Lord  Averil.  "  I  wrote 
to  you  from  London  to  send  me  the 
shares  up  ;  but  you  did  not  seem  to 
be  in  a  hurry  to  do  it.  So  I  have  come 
down  for  them." 

George  laughed.  "  Come  down  for 
nothing  but  the  shares  ?  But  you  will 
make  a  stay  ?" 

"  No.  I  go  up  again  to-morrow.  I 
am  not  sure  whether  I  shall  return 
here  for  the  summer  or  not.  Some 
friends  of  mine  are  going  over  to 
Canada  for  three  or  four  months. 
Perhaps  I  may  accompany  them." 

George  devoutly  wished  his  lordship 
could  be  off,  there  and  then  ;  and  that 
the  sojourn  might  last  years,  instead 
of  months.  "I  wish  /had  the  time 
to  go  there  !"  cried  he,  aloud :  "I'd 
start  to-morrow." 

"  Will  it  be  troubling  you  to  give 
me  the  bonds,  Mr.  George  ?" 

George  sat  a  few  moments,  his  head 
bent  as  if  in  thought.  "  The  bonds?" 
he  slowly  cried.  "  Your  bonds  ?  They 
were  sent — yes,  certainly,  your  bonds 
were  sent  to  our  agents  in  London." 

"  My  bonds  sent  to  your  agents  in 
London  !"  repeated  Lord  Averil,  in 
surprise.     "  What  for  ?" 

George  coughed.  "  Some  of  our 
deposited  deeds  are  kept  there.  Let 
me  see  ?"  he  continued,  again  plung- 
ing into  thought.  "Yes, — yours  were 
amongst  those  that  went  up.  I  re- 
member." 

"  But  why  not  have  told  me  this 
before  ?"  asked  Lord  Averil.     "  Had 


236 


THE       SHADOW       OF       ASHLYDYAT. 


you  written  me  word,  it  would  have 
saved  me  the  journey  down." 

"To  be  sure,"  acquiesced  George. 
"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  never  thought 
much  about  it,  or  where  they  were, 
until  now." 

"  Mr.  Hurde  told  me  they  were 
here,"  said  Lord  Averil. 

"  No  doubt  he  thought  so.  They 
were  here,  until  recently." 

"  I  shall  have  my  journey  back 
again,  then  !"  cried  his  lordship.  "Will 
the  town-bankers  give  them  up  to  me 
on  my  simple  demand,  or  must  they 
have  your  authority  ?" 

"  I  will  write  to  them,"  responded 
George 

The  viscount  rose.  Not  a  shade 
of  suspicion  had  crossed  his  mind. 
But  he  could  not  help  thinking  that 
he  should  have  made  a  better  man 
of  business  than  handsome  George. 
"  I  wish  you  had  told  me  !"  he  in- 
voluntarily repeated.  "  But  I  sup- 
pose," he  good-naturedly  added,  "  that 
my  poor  bonds  are  too.  insignificant 
to  have  much  place  in  the  thoughts 
of  a  man  surrounded  by  hundreds  of 
thousands." 

George  laughed.  He  was  walking 
with  Lord  Averil  to  the  entrance- 
door.  They  stood  at  it  together  when 
it  was  reached,  the  street  before  them. 
Lord  Averil  asked  after  Mr.  Godol- 
phin. 

"  He  seems  a  little  better,"  replied 
George.     "  Certainly  no  worse." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it, — very  glad 
indeed.  You  will  not  forget  to  write 
to  town,  Mr.  George." 

"  All  right,"  replied  George  Godol- 
phin. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"I  SEE  IT:    BUT  I  CANNOT  EXPLAIN  IT." 

The  red  light  of  the  setting  sun 
streamed  upon  the  golden  hair  of 
Cecil  Godolphin.  She  had  strolled 
out  from  the  dining-room  to  enjoy 
the  beauty  of  the  late  spring  evening, 
or  to  indulge  her  own   thoughts,  as 


might  be.  To  the  confines  of  the 
grounds  strayed  she,  as  far  as  those 
surrounding  Lady  Go'dolphin's  Folly; 
and  there  she  sat  down  on  the  garden- 
bench. 

Not  to  remain  alone  for  long.  She 
was  interrupted  by  the  very  man  upon 
whom — if  the  disclosure  must  be  made 
— her  evening  thoughts  had  centred. 
He  was  coming  up  with  a  cmick  step 
on  the  road  from  Prior's  Ash.  Seeing 
Cecil,  he  turned  off  to  accost  her,  his 
heart  beating. 

Beating  with  the  slight  hill,  or  with 
the  sight  of  Cecil  ?  He  best  knew. 
Many  a  man's  heart  has  beaten  at  a, 
less  lovely  vision.  She  wore  her 
favorite  attire,  white,  set  off  with  blue 
ribbons,  and  her  golden  hair  glittered 
in  the  sunlight.  She  nearly  screamed 
with  surprise.  She  had  been  think- 
ing of  him,  it  is  true,  but  as  one  who 
was  miles  and  miles  away.  In  spite 
of  his  stormy  and  not  long-past  re- 
jection, Lord  Averil  went  straight  up 
to  her  and  held  out  his  hand.  Did  he 
notice  that  her  blue  eyes  dropped  be- 
neath his,  as  she  rose  to  answer  his 
greeting, — that  the  soft  color  on  her 
cheeks  changed  to  a  hot  damask  ? 

"  I  fear  I  have  surprised  you,"  said 
Lord  Averil. 

"  A  little,"  acknowledged  Cecil. 
"  I  did  not  know  you  were  at  Prior's 
Ash.  Thomas  will  be  glad  to  see 
you." 

She  turned  to  walk  with  him  to 
the  house,  as  in  courtesy  bound. 
Lord  Averil  offered  her  his  arm,  and 
Cecil  condescended  to  put  the  tips  of 
her  fingers  within  it.  Neither  broke 
the  silence  ;  perhaps  neither  could  ; 
and  they  gained  the  large  porch  of 
Ashlydyat.     Cecil  spoke  then. 

"Are  you  going  to  make  a  long 
stay  in  the  country  r" 

"  A  very  short  one.  A  party  of 
friends  are  departing  for  Canada,  and 
they  wish  me  to  make  one.  I  think 
I  shall." 

"To  Canada!"  echoed  Cecil, — 
"  all  that  way  !" 

Lord  Averil  smiled.  "  It  sounds 
farther  than  it  really  is.  I  am  an 
old  traveler,  you  know." 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


237 


Cecil  opened  the  dining-room  door. 
Thomas  was  alone.  He  had  left  the 
table,  and  was  seated  in  his  arm-chair 
at  the  window.  A  glad  smile  illumined 
his  face  when  he  saw  Lord  Averil. 
Lord  Averil  was  one  of  the  very  few 
of  whom  Thomas  Godolphin  could 
have  made  a  close  friend.  These  close 
friends  ! — not  above  one  or  two,  per- 
haps, can  we  meet  writh  in  a  lifetime. 
Acquaintances  many  ;  but  friends — 
those  to  whom  the  heart  can  speak 
out  its  inmost  thoughts,  who  may  be 
as  our  own  soul — how  few  ! 

Cecil  left  them  alone.  She  ran  off 
to  tell  Janet  that  Lord  Averil  had 
come,  and  would  perhaps  take  tea 
with  them,  were  he  invited.  Thomas, 
with  ideas  more  largely  hospitable, 
was  pressing  dinner  upon  him.  It 
could  be  brought  back  at  once. 

"  I  have  dined  at  the  Bell,"  replied 
Lord  Averil.  "  Not  any,  thank  you," 
he  added,  as  Thomas  was  turning  to 
the  wine.  "  I  have  taken  all  I  re- 
quire." 

"  Have  you  come  to  make  a  long 
stay  ?"  inquired  Thomas, — like  Cecil 
had  done. 

"  I  shall  go  back  to  town  to-morrow. 
Having  nothing  to  do  with  myself 
this  evening,  I  thought  I  could  not 
spend  it  better  than  in  coming  to  you. 
I  am  pleased  to  see  that  you  are  look- 
ing better." 

"  The  warm  weather  seems  to  be 
doing  me  good,"  was  Thomas  Godol- 
phin's  reply, — a  consciousness  within 
him  how  little  better  he  really  was. 
"  Why  are  you  making  so  short  a 
stay  ?" 

"Well,  as  it  turns  out,  my  journey 
has  been  a  superfluous  one.  Those 
bonds  that  you  hold  of  mine  brought 
me  down,"  continued  Lord  Averil, 
little  thinking  that  he  was  doing  mis- 
chief by  mentioning  the  subject  to 
Mr.  Godolphin.  "  I  am  going  to  sell 
out,  and  came  down  to  get  them." 

"Why  did  you  not  write?"  said 
Thomas.  "  We  could  have  sent  them 
to  you." 

"  I  did  write,  a  week  or  ten  days 
ago,  and  your  brother  wrote  me  word 
in  answer  that  the  bonds  should  be 


sent,  —  or  something  to  that  effect. 
But  they  never  came.  Having  nothing 
much  to  do,  I  thought  I  would  run 
down  for  them.  I  also  wanted  to  seo 
Max.     But  he  is  away." 

"  I  believe  he  is,"  replied  Thomas. 
"  Have  you  got  the  bonds  ?" 

"  It  has  proved  a  useless  journev, 
I  say,"  replied  Lord  Averil.  "  The 
bonds,  I  find,  are  in  town,  at  your 
agents." 

Thomas  Godolphin  looked  up  with 
surprise.  "  They  are  not  in  town," 
he  said.  "  What  should  bring  them 
in  town  ?  Who  told  you  that  ?" 
"  Your  brother  George." 
"  George  told  you  the  bonds  were 
in  town  ?"  repeated  Thomas,  as  if  he 
could  not  believe  his  ears. 

"  He  did  indeed  ;  not  three  hours 
ago.  Why  ?  Are  they  not  in  town  ?" 
"Most  certainly  not.  The  bonds 
are  in  our  strong-room,  where  they 
were  first  deposited.  They  have  never 
been  moved  from  it.  What  could 
George  have  been  thinking  of?" 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  I  did  not 
fancy  he  appeared  over  certain  him- 
self, where  they  were,  whether  here  or 
in  town,"  said  Lord  Averil.  "  At 
length  he  remembered  that  they  were 
in  town  :  he  said  they  had  gone  up 
with  other  deeds." 

"He  makes  a  mistake, "said  Thomas. 
"He  must  be  confounding  your  bonds 
with  some  that  we  sent  up  the  other 
day  of  Lord  Cavemore's.  And  yet,  I 
wonder  that  he  should  !  Lord  Cave- 
more's went  up  for  a  particular  pur- 
pose, and  George  himself  took  the  in- 
structions. Lord  Cavemore  consulted 
him  upon  the  business  altogether." 

"  Then — if  my  bonds  are  here — can 
I  have  them  at  once  ?"  asked  Lord 
Averil. 

"  You  can  have  them  the  instant 
the  bank  is  open  to-morrow  morning. 
In  fact,  you  might  have  them  to-night 
if  George  should  happen  to  be  at  home. 
I  am  sorry  you  should  have  had  any 
trouble  about  it." 

Lord  Averil  smiled.  "  Speaking 
frankly,  I  do  not  fancy  George  is  so 
much  a  man  of  business  as  you  are. 
When  I  first  asked  for  the  bonds,  nearly 


238 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


a  month  ago,  lie  appeared  to  be  quite 
at  sea;  not  to  know  what  I  meant,  or 
to  remember  that  you  held  bonds  of 
mine." 

"  Did  you  ask  for  the  bonds  a  month 
ago  ?"  exclaimed  Thomas. 

"  It's  about  that  time.  It  was  when 
you  were  in  London.  George  at  last 
remembered." 

"  Did  he  not  give  them  to  you  ?" 

"  No.  He  said, — I  almost  forget 
what  he  said.  That  he  did  not  know 
where  to  put  his  hands  upon  them,  I 
think,  in  your  absence." 

Thomas  felt  vexed.  He  wondered 
what  could  have  possessed  George  to 
behave  so  unbusiness-like  :  or  how  it 
was  possible  for  him  to  have  blun- 
dered so  about  the  bonds.  But  he 
would  not  blame  his  brother  to  Lord 
Averil.  "  You  shall  have  the  bonds 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning,"  he 
said.  "  I  will  drop  a  note  to  George, 
reminding  him  where  they  are,  in  case 
I  am  not  at  the  bank  early  enough  for 
you." 

Unusually  well  felt  Thomas  Godol- 
phin  that  evening.  He  proceeded  with 
Lord  Averil  to  .the  drawing-room,  to 
his  sisters  ;  and  a  very  pleasant  hour 
or  two  the}r  all  spent  together.  Bessy 
laughed  at  Lord  Averil  a  great  deal 
about  his  proposed  Canada  expedition, 
telling  him  she  did  not  believe  he 
was  serious  in  saying  that  he  enter- 
tained it. 

It  was  a  genial  night,  soft,  warm, 
and  lovely,  the  moon  bright  again. 
The  church-clocks  at  Prior's  Ash  were 
striking  ten  when  Lord  Averil  rose  to 
leave  Ashlydyat.  "  If  you  will  wait 
two  minutes  for  me,  I  will  go  a  little 
way  with  you,"  said  Thomas  Godol- 
phin. 

He  withdrew  to  another  room,  pen- 
ned a  line,  and  dispatched  it  by  a 
servant  to  the  bank.  Then  he  rejoin- 
ed Lord  Averil,  passed  his  arm  within 
his  lordship's,  and  went  out  with  him. 

"  Is  this  Canada  project  a  joke  ?" 
asked  he. 

"  Indeed,  no.  I  have  not  quite 
made  up  my  mind  to  go.  I  think  I 
shall.  If  so,  I  shall  be  away  in  a 
week  from  this.     Why  should  I  not 


go  ?  I  have  no  settled  home,  no 
ties." 

"  Should  you  not — I  beg  your  par- 
don, Averil — be  the  happier  for  a 
settled  home  ?  You  might  form  ties. 
I  think  a  roving  life  must  be  the  least 
desirable  one." 

"  It  is  one  I  was  never  fitted  for. 
My  inclination  would  lead  me  to 
home,  to  domestic  happiness.  But, 
as  you  know,  I  put  that  out  of  my 
power." 

"  For  a  time.  But  that  is  over. 
You  might  marry  again." 

"I  do  not  suppose  I  ever  shall," 
returned  Lord  Averil,  feeling  half 
prompted  to  tell  his  unsuspicious 
friend  that  his  own  sister  was  the 
barrier.  "You  have  never  married," 
he  resumed,  allowing  the  impulse  to 
die  away. 

Thomas  Godolphin  shook  his  head. 
"  The  cases  are  different,"  he  said.  "  In 
your  wife  you  lost  one  whom  you  could 
not  regret " 

"  Don't  call  her  by  that  name,  Go- 
dolphin  !"  burst  forth  Lord  Averil. 

"And  in  Ethel  I  lost  one  who  was 
all  the  world  to  me, — who  could  never 
be  replaced,"  Thomas  went  on,  after  a 
pause.  "  The  cases  were  widely  dif- 
ferent." 

"Ay,  widely  different,"  assented 
Lord  Averil. 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  each 
buried  in  his  own  thoughts.  At  the 
commencement  of  the  road,  Lord 
Averil  stopped,  and  took  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin's  hand  in  his. 

"  You  shall  not  come  any  farther 
with  me." 

Thomas  stopped  also.  He  had  not 
intended  to  go  farther.  "  You  will 
really  start  for  Canada  ?" 

"  I  believe  I  shall." 

"  Take  my  blessing  with  you  then, 
Averil.  We  may  never  meet  again 
in  this  world." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Lord  Averil. 

"  The  medical  men  entertain  hopes 
that  my  life  may  not  be  terminated  so 
speedily:  /believe  that  a  few  months 
will  end  it.  I  may  not  live  to  wel- 
come you  home." 

It   was   the   first   intimation    Lord 


THE     SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


239 


uWeceived  of  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin's  fanil  malady.  Thomas  ex- 
plained it  to  him.  He  was  over- 
whelmed. 

"Oh,  my  friend!  my  friend!  Can- 
not death  he  coaxed  to  spare  you  ?" 
he  called  out,  in  his  pain.  How  many 
have  vainly  echoed  the  same  cry  ! 

A  few  more  words,  a  long  grasp  of 
the  lingering  hands,  and  they  parted. 
Thomas  with  a  God-speed ;  Lord 
Averil  with  a  different  prayer — a  God 
save — upon  his  lips.  The  peer  turned 
to  Prior's  Ash;  Thomas  Godolphin 
towards  home. 

Not  hy  the  path  he  had  come.  He 
had  brought  Lord  Averil  down  to 
the  broad  open  entrance  to  Ashly- 
dyat ;  he  turned  to  go  round  the  path 
by  the  ash-trees  in  front  of  the  Dark 
Plain.  Possibly  he  had  a  mind  to  see 
whether  the  Shadow  was  abroad  to- 
night. 

Before  he  had  well  turned  the  cor- 
ner of  the  trees,  or  had  given  more 
than  a  glance  to  the  Black  Shadow — 
for  there  it  was — he  heard  hasty  foot- 
steps behind  him.  Looking  round,  he 
beheld  Lord  Averil.  Softened  by  the 
parting,  by  the  tidings  he  had  heard, 
an  impulse  had  taken  Lord  Averil 
that  he  would  speak  of  Cecil :  and  he 
turned  back  to  do  so. 

"  Godolphin,  I What's  that  ?" 

The  great  Black  Shadow,  stretch- 
ing out  there  in  the  distance,  had  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  Lord  Averil. 
He  stood  with  his  forefinger  extended, 
pointing  towards  it. 

"  That  is  what  they  call  the  Shadow 
of  Ashlydyat,"  quietly  replied  Thomas 
Godolphin. 

Lord  Averil  had  never  before  seen 
it.  He  had  heard  enough  of  it.  At- 
tentively regarding  it,  he  did  not  for 
some  time  speak. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  it  V  he  asked, 
at  length. 

"Believe  in  it  ?"  repeated  Thomas 
Godolphin.  "I  believe  that  a  dark 
Shadow  does  appear  there  on  occa- 
sions. I  cannot  believe  otherwise, 
with  that  ocular  demonstration  before 
me." 


"And  how  do  you  account  for  it!" 
asked  Lord  Averil. 

"  I  have  been  all  my  life  trying  to 
do  so.  And  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  there  is  no  accounting 
for  it." 

"  But  I  have  always  treated  the  re- 
port as  the  most  perfect  folly,"  rejoin- 
ed Lord  Averil. 

"  Ay  No  doubt.  As  I  should  do, 
but  for  that," — and  Thomas  Godol- 
phin nodded  towards  the  Shadow,  on 
which  the  peer's  eyes  were  fixed  with 
an  intense  stare.  "You  and  I  are 
rational  beings,  Averil,  not  likely  to 
be  led  away  by  superstitious  folly  ; 
we  live  in  an  enlightened  age,  little 
tolerant  of  such.  And  yet,  here  we 
stand,  gazing  with  dispassionate  eyes 
on  that  Shadow,  in  full  possession  of 
our  sober  judgment.  It  is  there  ;  we 
see  it :  and  that  is  all  we  can  tell 
about  it.  The  Shadow  of  Ashlydyat 
is  ridiculed  from  one  end  of  the 
county  to  the  other ;  spoken  of — when 
spoken  of  at  all — as  an  absurd  super- 
stition of  the  Godolphins.  But  there 
the  Shadow  is:  and  not  all  the  ridi- 
cule extant  can  do  away  with  the 
plain  fact.  I  see  it :  but  I  cannot 
explain  it  ?" 

"  What  do  you  do  about  it  ?" 

Lord  Averil  asked  the  question  in 
his  bewildered  wonder.  A  smile  cross- 
ed Thomas  Godolphin's  lips  as  he 
answered  it. 

"  We  do  nothing.  We  can  do  noth- 
ing. We  cannot  prevent  its  coming  ; 
we  cannot  send  it  away  when  it 
comes  ;  we  cannot  bring  it  if  it  does 
not  come  of  its  own  accord.  If  I 
reasoned  about  it  for  a  month,  Averil, 
I  could  give  no  better  explanation." 

Lord  Averil  drew  a  deep  breath, 
like  one  awaking  from  a  reverie.  As 
Thomas  Godolphin  said  :  there  was 
the  Shadow,  all  plain  to  his  eyes,  to 
his  senses  :  but  of  explanation  of  its 
cause,  thei*e  was  none :  The  little 
episode  had  driven  away  the  impulse 
to  speak  of  Cecil :  and,  after  another 
hand  pressure,  he  finally  turned  away, 
and  pursued  his  walk  to  Prior's  Ash. 

Another    was    also    pursuing    his 


240 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


walk  to  Prior's  Ash ;  indeed,  had 
nearly  gained  it ;  and  that  was  Thomas 
Godolphin's  messenger.  A pproaching 
the  bank  residence,  he  distinguished 
gome  one  standing  at  the  entrance, 
and  found  that  it  was  Mr.  George 
Godolphin. 

"What's  this  ?"  asked  George.  "  A 
letter  ?" 

"  My  master  sent  me  down  with  it, 
sir." 

George  turned  it  about  in  his  hand. 
"Does  it  require  an  answer,  do  you 
know,  Andrew  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  My  master  said  I  need 
not  wait." 

The  man  departed,  and  George 
carried  the  note  into  the  dining-room. 
Maria  sat  there,  reading,  underneath 
the  chandelier.  She  looked  pleased 
to  see  her  husband,  and  closed  the 
book.  George  had  been  out  all  the 
evening.  He  stood  opposite  Maria, 
and  tore  the  note  open. 

"  Dear  George  : — Lord  Averil's 
bonds  are  in  his  case  in  the  strong- 
room. How  could  you  make  such  a 
mistake  as  to  tell  him  they  had  gone 
to  town  ?  I  send  you  word,  lest  he 
should  call  for  them  in  the  morning 
before  I  reach  the  bank. 
"  Ever  yours, 

"Thomas  Godolphin." 

Then  the  explosion  must  come ! 
With  a  word,  that  was  very  like  a 
groan,  George  crushed  the  paper  in 
his  hand.     Maria  heard  the  sound. 

"  What  is  it,  George  ?" 

"Nothing.  What?  This?  Only 
a  note  from  Thomas." 

He  began  whistling  lightly,  to  cover 
his  real  feelings,  and  took  up  the 
book  Maria  had  closed.  "Is  it  enter- 
taining ?"  asked  he,  turning  over  its 
pages. 

"  Very.  It's  a  nice  book.  But  for 
having  it  to  read,  I  should  have  been 
lying  on  the  sofa.  I  have  a  very  bad 
headache  to-night." 

"  Go  to  bed,"  responded  George. 

"  I  think  I  must.  Perhaps  you  will 
not  like  to  come  so  early?" 

"  Never  mind  me.     I  have  got  an 


hour  or  two's  work  to  dmdn  the  bank 
to-night." 

"  Oh,  George  !" 

"  My  dear,  it  need  not  keep  you  up." 

"George,  I  cannot  think  how  it  is 
that  you  have  night-work  to  do  !" 
she  impulsively  exclaimed,  after  a 
pause.  "  I  am  sure  Thomas  would 
not  wish  you  to  do  it.  I  think  1  shall 
ask  him." 

George  turned  round,  and  grasped 
her  shoulder,  quite  sharply.   "  Maria." 

His  grasp,  I  say,  was  sharp,  his 
look  and  voice  were  imperatively 
stern.  Maria  felt  frightened :  she 
scarcely  knew  why.  "What  have  I 
done,  George  ?"  she  asked,  timidly. 

"  Understand  me,  please,  once  for 
all.  What  I  choose  to  do,  does  not 
regard  my  brother  Thomas.  I  will 
have  no  tales  carried  to  him." 

"  Why  do  you  mistake  me  so  ?" 
she  answered,  when  she  had  a  little 
recovered  her  surprise.  "  It  cannot 
be  well  for  you,  or  pleasant  for  you, 
to  have  so  much  work  to  do  at  night, 
and  I  thought  Thomas  would  have 
told  you  not  to  do  it,  Tales  !  George, 
you  know  I  should  never  tell  them  of 
you.'^ 

"  No,  no  ;  I  know  you  would  not, 
Maria.  I  have  been  idle  of  late,  and 
am  getting  up  my  work  :  that's  all  : 
but  it  would  not  do  to  let  Thomas 
know  it.  You — you  don't  tell  Isaac 
that  I  sit  up  at  the  books  ?"  he  cried, 
almost  in  an  accent  of  terror. 

She  looked  up  at  him  wonderingly, 
through  her  wet  eyelashes.  "  Surely, 
no  !  Should  I  be  likely  to  speak  to 
Isaac  of  what  }rou  do  ?  or  to  any 
one  ?" 

George  folded  her  in  his  arms,  kiss- 
ing the  tears  from  her  face.  "  Go 
to  bed  at  once,  darling,  and  sleep 
your  headache  off."  he  fondly  whis- 
pered. "  I  will  be  up  soon  ;  as  soon 
as  I  can." 

He  lighted  her  candle  and  gave  it 
to  her.  As  Maria  took  it,  she  re- 
membered something  she  wished  to 
say  to  him.  "  When  will  it  be  con- 
venient to  you  to  give  me  some 
money,  Geortre  ?" 

"  What  for?" 


THE     S  n  A  P  0  W      OF     A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


241 


"  Oh,  you  know.  For  housekeeping. 
The  bills  are  getting  so  heavy,  and 
the  tradespeople  are  beginning  to  ask 
fur  their  money.  The  servants  want 
their  wages,  too.  Would  it  not  be 
better  to  pay  regularly,  as  we  used  to 
do,  instead  of  letting  things  run  on  so 
long  ?" 

"Ay.  I'll  see  about  it,"  replied 
George. 

George  had  got  into  the  habit  of 
giving  the  same  answer,  when  asked 
by  his  wife  for  money.  She  had  asked 
several  times  lately :  but  all  the 
batisfaction  she  could  get  was,  "  I'll 
see  about  it."  Not  a  suspicion  that 
his  means  were  running  short  ever 
crossed  her  brain. 

She  went  up-stairs  and  retired  to 
rest,  soon  falling  asleep.  Her  head 
was  heavy.  The  household  went  to 
bed  ;  George  shut  himself  in  the  bank, 
— as  was  his  recent  custom  ;  and  the 
house  was  soon  wrapped  in  quiet, — 
like  a  sober  house  should  be. 

Two  o'clock  was  striking  from  All 
Souls'  clock  when  Maria  awoke. 
Why  should  she  have  awoke  ? — thei'e 
was  no  noise  to  startle  her.  All  she 
knew — and  it  is  all  that  a  great 
many  of  us  know — was,  that  she  did 
awake. 

To  her  exceeding  astonishment, 
George  was  not  in  bed.  Two  o'clock  ! 
— and  he  had  said  that  he  should  soon 
follow  her  !  A  feeling  of  vague  alarm 
stole  over  Maria. 

All  sorts  of  improbable  suggestions 
crowded  on  her  imagination.  Imagin- 
ations, you  know,  are  more  fantastic 
in  the  dark,  still  night,  than  in  the  busy 
day.  Had  he  been  taken  ill  ?  Had 
he  fallen  asleep  at  his  work  ?  Could 
he, — could  he  have  set  the  books  and 
himself  on  fire  ?  Had  a  golden  crown 
been  offered  to  Maria,  she  could  not 
have  remained  there  tranquil  a  minute 
longer. 

Groping  about  for  her  shoes  and 
stockings  she  put  them  on,  flung  over 
herself  a  large,  warm  dressing-gown, 
and  stole  down  the  stairs.  Passing 
through  the  door  that  divided  the 
dwelling  from  the  bank,  she  softly 
turned  the  handle  of  George's  room, 
15 


and  opened  it.  Secure  in  the  house 
being  at  rest,  he  had  not  locked  the 
doors  against  interruption. 

The  tables  seemed  strewed  with 
books,  but  George  was  not  then  oc- 
cupied with  them.  He  was  sitting 
in  a  chair  apart,  buried — as  it  ap- 
peared— in  thought,  his  hands  and 
his  head  alike  hanging  listlessly  down. 
He  started  up  at  the  entrance  of 
Maria. 

"  I  got  alarmed,  George,"  she  said, 
trying  to  explain  her  appearance.  "  I 
awoke  suddenly,  and  finding  you  had 
not  come  up,  I  grew  frightened, 
thinking  you  might  be  ill.  It  is  two 
o'clock  !" 

"  Whatever  made  you  come  down 
out  of  your  warm  bed  ?"  reiterated 
George.      "You'll  catch  your  death." 

"  I  got  frightened,  I  say.  Will  you 
not  come  up  now  ?" 

"  I  am  coming  directly,"  replied 
George.  "  Go  back  at  once.  You'll 
be  sure  to  take  cold." 

Maria  turned  to  obey.  Somehow 
the  dark  passages  struck  on  her  with 
a  nervous  dread.  She  shrunk  into 
the  room  again. 

"  I  don't  care  to  go  up  alone,"  she 
cried.     "  I  have  no  light. " 

"  How  foolish  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  I 
declare,  Maria,  Meta  would  be  braver  !" 

Some  nervous  feeling  did  certainly 
appear  to  be  upon  her,  for  she  burst 
into  tears.  George's  tone, — a  tone  of 
irritation,  it  had  been, — was  exchanged 
for  one  of  soothing  tenderness,  as  he 
bent  over  her.  "  What  ails  you  to- 
night, Maria  ?     I'll  light  you  up." 

"  I  don't  knoAV  what  ails  me,"  she 
answered,  suppressing  her  sobs.  "  I 
have  not  felt  in  spirits  of  late.  George, 
sometimes  I  think  you  are  not  well. 
You  are  a  great  deal  changed  in  your 
manner  to  me.  Have  I, — have  I  dis- 
pleased you  in  any  way  ?" 

"  You  displeased  me  !  No,  my 
darling." 

He  spoke  with  impulsive  fondness. 
Well  had  it  been  for  George  Godol- 
phin  had  no  heavier  care  been  upon 
him  than  any  little  displeasure  his 
wife  could  give.  The  thought  occurred 
to  him  with  strange  bitterness. 


242 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


"  I'll  light  you  up,  Maria,"  he 
repeated.  "  I  shall  not  be  long  after 
you." 

And,  taking  the  heavy  lamp  from 
the  table,  he  carried  it  to  the  outer 
passage,  and  held  it  while  she  went 
up  the  stairs.  Then  he  returned  to 
the  room  and  to  his  work, — whatever 
that  work  might  be. 

Vain  work  !  vain,  delusive,  useless 
work  !  As  you  will  soon  find,  Mr. 
George  Godolphin. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

THE    LOSS   PROCLAIMED. 

WriETriER  carking  care  or  hopeful 
joy  may  be  in  the  heart's  inner  dwell- 
ing-place, people  generally  meet  at 
their  breakfast-tables  as  usual.  So 
long  as  there's  any  thing  in  the  house 
to  eat,  meals  are  spread  :  so  long  as 
the  customary  laws  of  daily  routine 
can  be  observed,  they  are  observed ; 
or,  at  any  rate,  a  pretence  to  it  is 
made. 

George  Godolphin  sat  with  his  wife 
at  the  breakfast-table.  Maria  was  in 
high  spirits :  her  indisposition  of  the 
pi'evious  evening  had  passed  away. 
She  was  telling  George  an  anecdote 
of  Meta,  as  she  poured  out  the  coffee, 
some  little  ruse  the  young  lady  had 
exercised,  to  come  over  Margery  ;  and 
Maria  laughed  heartily  as  she  told  it. 
George  laughed  in  echo ;  full  as 
merrily  his  wife.  There  must  have 
been  two  George  Godolphins  surely 
at  that  moment  1  The  outer  one,  the 
one  presented  to  the  world,  all  gay, 
and  smiling,  and  careless  ;  the  inner 
one,  kept  for  his  own  private  and 
especial  delectation,  grim,  and  dark, 
and  ghastly. 

Breakfast  was  nearly  over,  when 
there  was  heard  a  clattering  of  little 
feet,  the  door  was  burst  open,  and 
Miss  Meta  appeared  in  a  triumphant 
shout  of  laughter.  She  had  eluded 
Margery's  vigilance,  and  eloped  from 


the  nursery.  Margery  speedily  fol- 
lowed, .scolding  loudly,  her  hands 
stretched  forth  to  seize  upon  the  run- 
away. But  Meta  had  bounded  to  her 
papa,  and  found  a  refuge. 

George  caught  her  up  on  his  knee  : 
his  bright  hair — the  same  shade  once, 
but  darker  now — mixing  with  the 
golden  locks  of  the  child,  as  he  took 
from  her  kiss  after  kiss.  To  say  that 
George  Godolphin  was  passionately 
fond  of  his  child  would  not  be  speak- 
ing too  strongly  :  few  fathers  can  love 
a  child  more  ardently  than  George 
did  Meta.  A  pretty  little  lovable 
thing  she  was !  Look  at  her  on 
George's  knee  !  her  dainty  white  frock, 
its  sleeves  tied  up  with  blue,  her 
pretty  socks  and  shoes,  her  sunny 
face,  surrounded  by  its  golden  shower 
of  shining  curls.  Margery  scolded  in 
the  doorway,  but  Miss  Meta,  little 
heeding,  was  casting  her  inquisitive 
eyes  on  the  breakfast-table,  to  see 
what  there  might  be  nice  upon  it. 

"  If  you'd  just  please  to  punish  her 
once  for  it,  sir,  she'd  not  do  it,  may- 
be, in  future !"  grumbled  Margery. 
"  Xaughty  girl !" 

"  I  think  I  must,"  said  George. 
"Shall  I  whip  you,  Meta  ?» 

Meta  shouted  out  a  joyous  little 
laugh  in  answer,  turned  her  face 
round,  and  clung  to  him  lovingly. 
She  knew  what  his  "whippings" 
meant. 

"  But  if  Margery  says  so  ?" 

"Margery  nobody,"  responded 
Meta,  bustling  her  face  round  to  the 
table  again.  "Mamma,  let  me  have 
a  bit  of  that." 

Maria  hesitated.  "  That"  was  some 
tempting-looking  breakfast-dish,  very 
good,  no  doubt,  for  George,  but  very 
rich  for  Meta.  George,  however, 
drew  it  towards  him,  and  cut  her 
some,  claiming  for  his  reward  as  many 
kisses  as  Meta's  impatience  to  begin 
upon  it  would  accord.  Margery  went 
off  in  a  flounce. 

"  No  wonder  the  child  despises  her 
bread-and-milk  in  a  morning  !  If  I 
had  been  let  feed  you  upon  them 
spiced  things,  Mr.  George,  when  you 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHMDYAT 


243 


were  a  child,  I  wonder  whether  you'd 
have  growed  into  the  strong  man  you 
have  1" 

"  Into  a  stronger,"  called  out 
George.  He  liked  as  much  to  give  a 
word  of  teasing  now  and  then  to 
Margery  as  he  had  in  the  old  days 
she  referred  to.  Margery  retorted 
with  some  answer,  which  he  did  not 
catch,  and  George  laughed, — laughed 
out  loud  and  merrily,  and  again  buried 
his  face  on  Meta's. 

But  he  could  not  stay  all  day  long 
in  that  scene  of  peace.  Oh,  if  we  only 
could  !  those  who  have  to  go  out  to 
battle  with  the  daily  world.  If  there 
were  but  a  means  of  shutting  and 
locking  the  door  on  the  woes  that 
turn  a^  man's  hair  white  before  its 
time  ! 

George  took  Meta  a  triumphal  ride 
round  the  room  on  his  shoulder,  and 
then,  having  extorted  his  payment, 
put  her  down  by  'Maria.  Going  into 
the  bank  to  his  day's  work.  His 
day's  work  !  rather  an  embarrassing 
one,  that  day,  Mr.  George  Godolphin  ! 

Taking  the  keys  of  the  strong-room 
from  the  cupboard,  also  certain  other 
keys,  as  he  had  done  once  before  with- 
in the  knowledge  of  the  reader,  he 
proceeded  to  the  strong-room,  opened 
a  certain  safe  in  it,  and  took  out  the 
box  inscribed  "Lord  Averil."  This 
he  also  opened,  and  examined  its  con- 
tents. Mr.  George  Godolphin  was 
searching  for  certain  bonds  :  or, 
making  believe  to  search  for  them. 
Having  satisfied  himself  that  they 
were  not  there,  he  returned  the  box  to 
its  place,  made  all  safe  again,  went 
back,  and  sat  down  to  open  the  morn- 
ing letters.  Presently  he  called  to  a 
clerk. 

"  Is  Mr.  Hurde  come  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Desire  him  to  step  here." 

The  old  clerk  came  in,  in  obedience 
to  the  summons,  taking  off  his  spec- 
tacles as  he  entered,  to  rub  one  of 
their  glasses,  which  had  got  misty. 
George  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  table, 
and,  resting  his  chin  upon  his  hand, 
looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

"  Hurde,"  said  he,  plunging  mid- 


way into  his  communication,  which 
he  made  in  a  low  tone,  "  those  bonds 
of  Lord  Averil's  are  missing." 

The  clerk  paused,  as  if  scarcely 
understanding.  "  How  do  you  mean, 
sir  ?     Missing  in  what  way  ?" 

"  I  can't  find  them,"  replied  George. 

"  They  are  in  Lord  Averil's  box  in 
the  strong-room,  sir,  with  his  other 
papers." 

"  But  they  are  not  there,"  replied 
George.  "  I  have  searched  the  papers 
through  this  morning.  Hurde,  we 
have  had  some  roguery  at  work." 

Another  pause,  devoted  by  Mr. 
Hurde  to  the  revolving  of  the  com- 
munication. "  Roguery  !"  he  slowly 
repeated.  "Have  you  missed  any 
thing  else,  Mr.  George  ?" 

"  No.     I  have  not  looked." 

"  Oh,  sir,  there's  no  fear  of  there 
being  any  thing  wrong,"  resumed  the 
old  clerk,  his  good  sense  repudiating 
the  notion.  "  Mr.  Godolphin  must 
have  moved  them." 

"  That's  just  what  I  thought  until 
last  night,"  said  George.  "  The  fact 
is,  Lord  Averil  asked  me  for  these 
bonds  some  little  while  ago,  while  my 
brother  was  in  London.  I  opened 
the  box,  and,  not  seeing  them  there, 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  Mr.  Go- 
dolphin had  moved  them.  Lord 
Averil  said  it  was  of  no  consequence 
then,  and  departed  for  London :  and 
the  thing  slipped  from  my  memory. 
"When  you  spoke  to  me  about  it  last 
evening,  of  course  I  felt  vexed  to  have 
forgotten  it,  and  I  put  off  Lord  Averil 
with  the  best  excuse  I  could." 

"And  has  Mr.  Godolphin  not 
moved  them,  sir  ?"  demanded  the 
clerk. 

"  It  appears  not.  He  dropped  me 
a  line  last  night,  saying  I  should  find 
the  bonds  in  their  place  in  the  box. 
I  suppose  Lord  Averil  was  up  at 
Ashlydyat  and  mentioned  it.  But  I 
can't  find  them  in  the  box." 

"  Sir,  you  know  you  are  not  a  very 
good  searcher,"  observed  Mr.  Hurde, 
after  some  consideration.  "  Once  or 
twice  that  you  have  searched  for 
deeds,  Mr.  Godolphin  has  found  them 
afterwards,  overlooked  by  you.    Shall 


2U 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


I  go  carefully  over  the  box,  sir  ?     I 
think  they  must  be  in  it." 

"  I  tell  you,  Hurde,  they  are  not," 

He  spoke  somewhat  fractiously. 
Fully  aware  that  he  had  occasionally 
overlooked  deeds,  in  his  haste  or  care- 
lessness, perhaps  the  contrast  between 
those  times  and  these,  imparted  a 
sting  to  his  manner.  Then,  whether 
the  deeds  had  been  found  or  not,  he 
was  innocent ;  now 

"  But,  if  they  are  not  in  the  box, 
where  can  they  be  ?"  resumed  Mr. 
Hurde. 

"  There  it  is,"  said  George.  "  Where 
can  they  be  ?  I  say,  Hurde,  that 
some  light  fingers  must  have  been  at 
work." 

Mr.  Hurde  considered  the  point 
over  in  his  mind.  It  seemed  that  he 
could  not  adopt  the  conclusion  readily. 
"  I  should  think  not,  sir.  If  nothing 
else  is  missing,  I  should  say  for  cer- 
tain not." 

"  They  are  missing  for  certain,"  re- 
turned George.  "  It  will  put  Mr. 
Godolphin  out  terribly.  I  wish  there 
had  been  any  means  of  keeping  it 
from  him  :  but,  now  that  Lord  Averil 
has  mentioned  the  bonds  to  him, 
there  are  none.  I  shall  get  the  blame. 
He  will  think  I  have  not  kept  the 
keys  securety." 

"  But  you  have,  sir,  have  you  not  ?" 

"  For  all  I  know  I  have,"  replied 
George,  assuming  a  carelessness  as  to 
the  point,  of  which  he  had  not  been 
guilty.  "  Allowing  that  I  had  not, 
for  argument's  sake,  what  dishonest 
person  can  we  have  about  us,  Hurde, 
who  would  use  the  advantage  to  his 
own  profit  ?" 

Mr.  nurde  began  calling  over  the 
list  of  clerks  preparatory  to  considering 
whether  a  hole  could  be  discerned  in 
any  of  their  coats.  He  was  engaged 
in  this  mental  process,  when  a  clerk 
interrupted  them,  to  say  that  a  gentle- 
man was  asking  to  see  Mr.  George 
Godolphin. 

George  looked  up  sharply.  The 
applicant,  however,  was  not  Lord 
Averil,  and  anybody  else  would  be 
more  tolerable  to  him  on  that  day 
than   his    lordship ;   Mr.    Godolphin, 


perhaps,  excepted.  As  the  old  clerk 
was  withdrawing  to  give  place  to  the 
visitor,  George  caught  sight,  through 
the  open  door,  of  Mr.  Godolphin  enter- 
ing the  office.  An  impulse  to  throw 
the  disclosure  off  his  own  shoulders, 
prompted  him  to  hasten  after  Mr. 
Hurde. 

"  Hurde,"  he  whispered,  catching 
his  arm,  "  you  may  as  well  make  the 
communication  to  Mr.  Godolphin.  He 
ought  to  know  it  at  once,  and  I  may 
be  engaged  some  time." 

So  George  remained  shut  up,  and 
the  old  clerk  followed  Thomas  Godol- 
phin to  his  private  room.  Mr.  Go- 
dolphin felt  well  that  morning,  and 
had  come  unusually  early  :  possibly 
lest  there  should  be  any  further  blun- 
dering over  Lord  Averil's  bonds.  He 
looked  somewhat  surprised  to  see  the 
old  clerk  approaching  him  with  a  long 
face  and  mysterious  look. 

"Do  you  want  me,  Hurde  ?" 

"  Mr.  George  has  desired  me  to 
speak  to  you,  sir,  about  those  bonds 
of  Lord  Averil's.  To  make  an  un- 
pleasant communication,  in  fact,  He 
is  engaged  himself  just  now.  He  says 
he  can't  find  them." 

"  They  are  in  the  strong-room,  in 
Lord  Averil's  case,"  replied  Mr.  Go- 
dolphin. 

"  He  says  they  are  not  there,  sir, — 
that  he  can't  find  them." 

"But  they  are  there,"  returned 
Thomas.  "  They  have  not  been  moved 
out  of  the  box  since  they  were  first 
placed  in  it," 

He  spoke  quietly  as  he  ever  did, 
but  very  firmly,  almost  as  if  he  were 
disputing  the  point,  or  had  been  pre- 
pared to  dispute  it.  Mr.  Hurde  re- 
sumed after  some  deliberation  :  he  was 
a  deliberate  man  always,  both  in 
temperament  and  speech. 

"What  Mr.  George  says,  is  this, 
sir.  That  when  you  were  in  London, 
Lord  Averil  asked  for  his  bonds.  Mr. 
George  looked  for  them,  and  found 
they  were  not  in  the  box  :  and  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  you  had 
moved  them.  The  affair  escaped  his 
memory,  he  says,  until  last  night, 
when  he  was  asked  for  them  again. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T 


245 


He  has  been  searching:  the  box  this 
morning,  but  cannot  find  the  bonds  in 
it." 

"  They  must  be  there,"  observed 
Thomas  Godolphin.  "  If  George  has 
not  moved  them,  Phave  not.  He  has 
a  knack  of  overlooking  things." 

"I  said  so  to  him,  sir,  just  now. 
He " 

"  Do  you  say  he  is  engaged?"  in- 
terrupted Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  The  secretary  of  the  railway  com- 
pany is  with  him,  sir.  I  suppose  he 
has  come  about  that  loan.  I  think 
the  bonds  can't  be  anywhere  but  in 
the  box,  sir.     I  told  Mr.  George  so." 

"  Let  me  know  when  he  is  disen- 
gaged," said  Thomas  Godolphin.  And 
Mr.  Hurde  went  out. 

George  Godolphin  was  disengaged 
then.  Mr.  Hurde  saw  the  gentleman 
whom  he  had  called  the  railway  com- 
pany's secretary,  departing.  The  next 
minute  George  Godolphin  came  out  of 
his  room. 

"Have  you  mentioned  that  to  my 
brother  ?"  he  asked  of  Hurde. 

"  I  have,  sir.  Mr.  Godolphin  thinks 
that  you  must  be  mistaken." 

George  went  in  to  his  brother,  shook 
hands,  and  said  he  was  glad  to  see 
him  so  early.  "  It  is  a  strange  thing 
about  these  bonds,"  he  continued,  not 
giving  Thomas  time  to  speak. 

"You  have  overlooked  them,"  said 
Thomas.  "  Bring  me  the  keys,  and  I 
will  go  and  get  them. " 

"I  assure  you  they  are  not  there." 

"  They  must  be  there,  George.  Bring 
me  the  keys." 

George  Godolphin  produced  the  key 
of  the  strong-room  and  of  the  safe, 
and  Lord  Averil's  box  was  exa- 
mined by  Thomas  Godolphin.  The 
bonds  in  question  were  not  in  it ;  and 
Thomas,  had  he  missed  himself,  could 
scarcely  have  been  more  completely 
astonished. 

"George,  you  must  have  moved 
them,"  were  the  first  words  he  spoke. 

"Not  I,"  said  George,  lightly. 
"Where  should  I  move  them  to?" 

"  But  no  one  has  the  power  to  get 
into  that  room,  and  peuetrate  to  the 
safe  and  the  box  after  it,  except  you 


and  myself,"  urged  Mr.  Godolphin. 
"Unless,  indeed,  you  have  allowed  the 
keys  to  stray." 

"  I  have  not  done  that,"  answered 
George.  "  This  seems  to  be  perfectly 
unaccountable." 

"  How  came  you  to  tell  Averil  last 
night  that  the  bonds  had  gone  to  Lon- 
don ?" 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,  1  did  not  know 
what  to  tell  him,"  replied  George. 
"When  I  first  missed  the  bonds,  when 
you  were  in  London " 

"Why  did  you  not  let  me  know 
then  that  they  were  missing  ?"  was 
the  interruption. 

"  I  forgot  it  when  you  came  home." 

"  But  you  should  not  have  allowed 
yourself  the  possibility  of  forgetting  a 
thing  like  that,"  remonstrated  Thomas. 
"Upon  missing  deeds  of  that  value, 
or,  in  fact,  of  any  value,  however 
slight,  you  should  have  communicated 
with  me  the  same  hour,  George,"  he 
added,  after  a  pause,  which  George 
did  not  break  ;  "I  cannot  understand 
how  it  was  that  you  did  not  see  the 
necessity  of  it  yourself." 

George  Godolphin  was  running  his 
hand  through  his  hair, — in  an  absent 
manner,  lost  in  thought,  in,  as  might 
be  conjectured, — the  contemplation  of 
the  past  time  referred  to.  "  How  was 
I  to  think  any  thing  but  that  you  had 
moved  the  deeds  ?"  he  said. 

"At  all  events,  you  should  have 
ascertained.  Why,  George,  were  I 
to  miss  deeds  that  I  believed  to  be  in 
a  given  place,  I  could  not  rest  a  night 
without  inquiring  after  them.  I  might 
assume — and  there  might  be  every 
probability  for  it — that  you  had 
moved  them  ;  but  my  sleep  would  be 
spoilt  until  I  ascertained  the  fact." 

George  made  no  reply.  I  wonder 
where  he  was  wishing  himself  !  Mr. 
Godolphin  resumed. 

"  In  this  instance,  I  do  not  see  how 
you  could  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  I  had  touched  the  bonds.  Where 
did  you  think  I  was  likely  to  move 
them  to  ?" 

George  could  not  tell, — and  said 
so.  It  was  not  impossible  but  Thomas 
might  have  sent  them  to  town,  or  have 


246 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


handed  them  back  to  Lord  Averil,  he 
continued  to  murmur,  in  a  somewhat 
confused  manner.  Thomas  looked  at 
him  ;  he  could  scarcely  make  him  out, 
but  supposed  the  loss  had  affected  his 
equanimity. 

"  Had  you  regarded  it  dispassion- 
ately, George,  I  think  you  would  have 
seen  it  in  a  more  serious  light.  I 
should  not  be  likely  to  move  the  bonds 
to  a  different  place  of  keeping,  with- 
out your  cognizance  ;  and  as  to  re- 
turning them  to  Lord  Averil,  the 
transaction  would  have  appeared  in 
the  books." 

"lam  sorry  I  forgot  to  mention  it 
to  you,"  said  George. 

"That  you  could  have  forgotten  it, 
and  continued  to  forget  it  until  now, 
passes  all  belief.  Has  there  never 
been  a  moment  at  any  time,  George, 
in  this  last  month,  that  it  has  recurred 
to  your  memory  ?" 

"  Well,  perhaps  there  may  have 
been, — just  a  casual  thought,"  acknow- 
ledged George.     "  I  can't  be  sure." 

"  And  yet  you  did  not  speak  to 
me!" 

"  In  your  present  state  of  health,  I 
was  willing  to  spare  you  unnecessary 
anxiety " 

"  Stay,  George.  If  you  really  as- 
sumed that  I  had  moved  the  deeds, 
the  asking  me  the  question  could  not 
have  been  productive  of  anxiety.  If 
any  such  fear,  as  that  the  deeds  were 
missing  without  my  agency,  only 
crossed  your  mind,  as  a  speculative 
suggestion,  it  was  your  bounden  duty 
to  acquaint  me." 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  dealt  with  the 
matter  now  without  acquainting  you," 
returned  George.  "Did  not  the  Lon- 
don doctors  warn  you  that  repose  of 
mind  was,  to  you,  essential  ?" 

"  George,"  was  the  impressive  an- 
swer, and  Thomas  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  brother's  arm  as  he  spoke  it,  "so 
long  as  I  pretend  to  transact  business, 
to  come  to  this  bank,  and  sit  here,  its 
master,  so  long  do  I  desire  and  request 
to  be  counted  equal  to  discharge  its 
duties  efficiently.  When  I  can  no 
longer  do  that,  I  will  withdraw  from 
it.     Never  again  suffer  my  state  of 


health  to  be  a  plea  for  keeping  matters 
from  me,  however  annoying  or  com- 
plicated they  may  be." 

Thomas  Godolphin  spent  half  that 
day  looking  into  other  strong-boxes, 
lest  perchance  the  missing  deeds  should 
have  got  into  any, — though  he  did  not 
see  how  that  could  be.  They  could 
not  be  found  ;  but  neither  did  any 
other  paper  of  consequence,  so  far  as 
could  be  recollected,  appear  to  have 
disappeared.  Thomas  could  not  ac- 
count for  the  loss  in  any  way,  or  con- 
jecture why  it  should  have  occurred, 
or  who  had  taken  the  bonds.  It  was 
made  known  in  the  bank  that  a  packet 
of  deeds  was  missing  ;  but  full  partic- 
ulars were  not  given. 

There  were  no  certain  data  to  go 
upon  as  to  the  time  of  the  loss. 
George  Godolphin  stated  that  he  had 
missed  it  a  month  ago  ;  Thomas,  when 
visiting  Lord  Averil's  box  for  some 
purpose  about  four  months  ago,  had 
seen  the  deeds  there,  secure.  They 
must  have  disappeared  between  those 
periods.  The  mystery  was — how  ? 
The  clerks  could  not  get  to  the  strong- 
room, and  to  the  safes  and  cases  in  it, 
unless  by  some  strange  accident ;  by 
some  most  unaccountable  neglect. 
Very  great  neglect  it  would  have  been, 
to  allow  them  the  opportunity  of  get- 
ting to  one  key ;  but  to  obtain  the  three 
or  four,  necessary  before  those  deeds 
could  have  been  taken,  and  to  obtain 
them  undiscovered,  was  next  door  to 
an  impossibility.  The  internal  ar- 
rangements in  the  house  of  Godolphin, 
Crosse,  and  Godolphin  were  of  a  strin- 
gent nature  :  Sir  George  Godolphin 
had  been  a  most  particular  man  in 
business.  Conjecture  upon  conjecture 
was  hazarded  ;  theory  after  theory  dis- 
cussed. When  Mr.  Hurde  found  the 
deeds  were  really  gone,  his  amazement 
was  excessive,  his  trouble  great. 
George,  as  soon  as  he  could,  stole 
away  from  the  discussion.  He  had 
got  over  his  part,  better  perhaps  than 
he  had  expected :  all  that  remained 
now,  was  to  make  the  best  of  the  loss, 
— and  to  institute  a  search  for  the 
deeds. 

"  I  can't  call  to  mind  a  single  one 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


24' 


that  would  do  it,  or  that  would  be 
likely  to  do  it,"  remarked  Mr.  Hurde, 
to  his  master. 

"  Of  whom  ?" 

"  Of  the  clerks  in  the  house  sir. 
But,  one  of  them,  it  must  have  been." 

"  A  stranger  it  could  not  have 
been,"  replied  Thomas  Godolphin. 
"  Had  a  midnight  plunderer  got  into 
the  bank,  he  would  not  have  contented 
himself  with  one  packet  of  deeds." 

"  Whoever  took  them,  sir,  took  them 
to  make  money  upon  them.  There's 
not  a  doubt  of  that.  I  wonder — I 
wonder " 

"  What  ?"  asked  Mr.  Godolphin. 

"  I  wonder — I  have  often  wondered, 
sir — whether  Layton  does  not  live 
above  his  income.     If  so " 

"  Hurde,"  said  Thomas  Godolphin, 
gravely,  "  I  believe  Layton  to  be  as 
honest  as  you  or  I." 

"  Well — I  have  always  thought  him 
so,  or  I  should  pretty  soon  have  spoken. 
But,  sir,  the  deeds  must  have  gone 
somehow,  by  somebody's  hands  ;  and 
Layton  is  the  least  milikely.  I  see  him 
on  a  Sunday  driving  his  new  wife 
out  in  a  gig.  She  plays  the  piano, 
too  !" 

How  these  items  in  the  domestic 
economy  of  the  clerk,  Layton,  could 
bear  upon  the  loss  of  the  deed,  especially 
the  latter  item,  Mr.  Hurde  did  not 
further  explain.  He  was  of  the  old 
school,  seeing  no  good  in  gigs,  still 
less  in  pianos  ;  and  he  determined  to 
look  a  little  after  Mi'.  Layton. 

Thomas  Godolphin,  straightforward 
and  honorable,  imparted  to  Lord  Av- 
eril  the  fact  of  the  deeds  being  miss- 
ing. Whether  he  would  have  revealed 
it  to  a  less  intimate  client  at  this  early 
stage  of  the  affair,  might  be  a  matter 
of  speculation.  The  house  would  not 
yet  call  them  lost,  he  said  to  Lord 
Averil :  it  trusted,  by  some  fortunate 
accident,  to  put  its  hands  upon  them, 
in  some  corner-pigeonhole.  Lord  Av- 
eril received  the  communication  with 
courteous  friendliness :  he  thought  it 
must  prove  that  they  had  only  been 
mislaid,  and  he  hoped  they  would  be 
found.  Both  gentlemen  hoped  that 
sincerely.     The  value  was  about  six- 


teen thousand  pounds, — too  much  for 
either  of  them  to  lose  with  equani- 
mity. 

"  George  must  have  known  of  this 
when  I  asked  him  for  the  deeds  a 
month  ago,"  cried  Lord  Averil. 

"I  think  not,"  replied  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin. "  It  was  your  asking  for  the 
deeds  which  caused  him  to  visit  the 
box  for  them,  and  he  then  found  they 
were  gone." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right.     But  I  re- 
member thinking   his   manner  pecu- 
liar." 
"  How  'peculiar'  ?"  inquired  Thomas. 

"Hesitating, — uncertain.  He  ap- 
peared at  first  not  to  know  what  I 
meant  in  asking  for  the  deeds.  Since 
you  spoke  to  me  of  the  loss,  it  struck 
me  as  accounting  for  George's  manner 
— that  he  did  not  like  to  tell  me  of  it." 

"  He  could  not  have  known  of  it 
then,"  repeated  Thomas  Godolphin. 

As  this  concluding  part  of  the  con- 
versation took  place,  they  were  coming 
out  of  the  room.  Isaac  Hastings  was 
passing  along  the  passage,  and  heard 
a  portion  of  it. 

"Are  they  deeds  of  Lord  Averil's 
that  are  missing  ?"  he  inquired  confi- 
dentially of  Mr.  Hurde,  later  in  the 
day. 

The  old  clerk  nodded  an  affirmative. 
"  But  you  need  not  proclaim  it  there," 
he  added,  by  way  of  caution,  glancing 
sideways  at  the  bank. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  should  ?"  re- 
turned Isaac  Hastings. 


CHAPTER  XXXYIII. 

A   RED-LETTER  DAY   FOR   MRS.  BOND. 

The  fragrant  scent  of  the  new-mown 
hay  pervaded  the  atmosphere  around 
Prior's  Ash.  A  backward,  cold  spring 
it  had  been  until  the  end  of  April, 
and  wiseacres  said  how  late  the  crops 
would  be.  But  with  May  the  weather 
had  burst  into  the  warmth  of  summer, 
vegetation  came  on  all  the  more  rap- 
idly for  its  previous  tardiness,  and  the 


248 


T  II  E      SHADOW      OF      ASULYDYAT. 


ci'ops  turned  out  to  be  ready  early, 
instead  of  late. 

Never  a  more  lovely  day  gladdened 
the  world  than  that  particular  day  in 
June.  Maria  Godolphin,  holding  Miss 
Meta  by  the  hand,  walked  along  under 
the  shady  field-hedge,  all  glorious  with 
its  clusters  of  wild  roses.  The  field 
was  covered  with  hay,  now  being 
piled  into  cocks  by  the  haymakers, 
and  Meta  darted  ever  and  anon  from 
her  mother's  side,  to  afford  the  valua- 
ble aid  of  her  tiny  hands.  Meta  would 
have  enjoyed  a  roll  on  the  hay  with 
the  most  intense  delight :  but  unfor- 
tunately Meta  was  in  the  full  grandeur 
of  visiting  attire  ;  not  in  simple  hay- 
field  undress.  Had  you  asked  Meta, 
she  would  have  told  you  she  had  on 
her  "  best  things."  Things  too  good 
to  be  allowed  to  come  to  grief  amidst 
the  hay.  Maria  soothed  the  disap- 
pointment by  a  promise  for  the 
morrow.  Meta  should  come  in  her 
brown  holland  dress  with  Margery, 
and  roll  about  as  much  as  she  pleased. 
Children  are  easily  satisfied,  and  Meta 
paced  on  soberly  under  the  promise, 
only  giving  covetous  glances  to  the 
hay.  With  all  her  impulsive  gayety, 
her  laughter  and  defiance  of  Margery, 
she  was  by  nature  a  most  gentle  child, 
easily  led. 

Maria  was  on  her  way  to  call  at 
Lady  Godolphin's  Folly ;  and  thence 
at  Ashlydyat.  Maria  was  not  given 
to  the  custom  of  making  morning 
calls  ;  she  deemed  it  a  very  unsatis- 
factory waste  of  time.  Convenient, 
no  doubt,  for  gossips,  but  a  sad  clog 
on  the  serious  business  of  life.  She 
made  them  now  and  then  ;  just  enough 
to  save  her  credit,  and  that  was  all. 
Mrs.  Pain  had  honored  Maria  with 
about  fifteen  visits,  and  Maria  was 
now  going  to  return  the  lot  in  one. 
Nobody  could  say  Charlotte  made  a 
business  of  ceremony  ;  she  would  run 
in  and  out  of  people's  houses  as  the 
whim  took  her,  every  day  in  the  week 
sometimes,  and  on  Maria  amidst  the 
rest.  Of  late,  she  had  called  more 
frequently  on  Maria  than  usual ;  and 
Maria,  her   conscience  weighty  with 


the  obligation,  at  last  set  out  to  re- 
turn it. 

But  she  had  not  dressed  for  it, — as 
some  people  would  count  dress,  Char- 
lotte herself,  for  instance.  Charlotte 
would  arrive,  splendid  as  the  sun ; 
not  a  color  of  the  rainbow  came  amiss 
to  her  ;  a  green  dress  one  day  ;  a  vio- 
let another,  a  crimson  a  third,  and  so 
on.  Dresses  with  flounces  and  fur- 
belows ;  jackets  interlaced  with  gold 
and  silver  ;  brimless  hats  surmounted 
by  bolt  upright  plumes.  All  that  Char- 
lotte wore  was  good,  so  far  as  cost 
went ;  so  far  as  taste  went,  opinions 
differed.  Maria  had  inherited  the 
taste  of  her  mother  :  she  could  not 
have  been  fine  had  you  bribed  her 
with  gold.  She  wore  to-day  a  pale 
dress  of  watered  silk ;  a  beautiful 
Cashmere  shawl  of  thin  texture,  and 
a  white  bonnet :  all  plain  and  quiet, 
as  befitted  a  lady.  The  charming  day 
had  induced  her  to  walk ;  and  the  N 
faint  perfume  of  the  hay,  wafting  over 
the  streets  of  Prior's  Ash,  had  allured 
her  to  choose  the  field  way, — the 
longest  way,  but  infinitely  the  pleas- 
antest. 

It  took  her  past  some  tenements 
called  familiarly  the  Pollard  cottages  ; 
in  one  of  which  lived  troublesome 
Mrs.  Bond.  All  the  inmates  of  these 
cottages  were  known  well  to  Maria ; 
she  had  been  familiar  with  some  of 
them  from  childhood  :  the  rector  of 
All  Souls'  was  wont  to  say  that  he 
had  more  trouble  with  the  Pollard 
cottages  than  with  all  the  rest  of  his 
parish.  For  one  thing,  sickness  was 
often  prevalent  in  them  ;  sometimes 
death ;  and  they  give  trouble  and 
anxiety  to  a  conscientious  pastor. 

"  Mamma,  you  going  to  see  old  Su- 
san to-day  ?"  chattered  Meta,  as  they 
approached  the  cottages. 

"Not  to-day,  Meta.  I  am  going 
straight  on  to  Mrs.  Pain's." 

Meta,  who  was  troubled  with  no 
qualms  on  the  score  of  ceremony 
herself,  perceiving  one  of  the  doors 
open,  darted  suddenly  inside  it.  Meta 
was  rather  in  the  habit  of  darting  inside 
any  open  door  that  it  took  her  fancy 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


249 


so  to  do.  Maria  walked  on  a  few 
steps,  and  then  turned  and  waited  ; 
but  the  little  truant  did  not  appear  to 
be  in  a  hurry  to  come  out,  and  she 
went  back  and  followed  her  in. 

A  lady  in  a  rusty  black  stuff  gown, 
covered  with  snuff,  her  dirty  cap  all 
awry,  and  her  face  somewhat  flushed, 
was  seated  in  state  before  a  round 
deal  table,  doing  nothing ;  save  con- 
templating certain  articles  that  were 
on  the  table,  with  a  remarkably  grat- 
ified expression  of  countenance.  The 
lady  was  Mrs.  Bond  :  and  this,  as 
Maria  was  soon  to  hear,  had  been  a 
decidedly  red-letter  day  with  her.  On 
the  table, — and  it  was  this  which  ap- 
peared to  be  fascinating  the  attention 
of  Meta,  for  the  child  seemed  glued  to 
it, — was  a  large  wicker  cage,  contain- 
ing a  parrot,  a  small  parrot  with  a 
plumage  as  fine  as  Mrs.  Charlotte 
Pain's,  and  an  angry-looking  tuft  on 
the  head,  not  unlike  her  hat's  tuft  of 
feathers.  Mrs.  Bond's  attention  ap- 
peared not  to  be  so  much  absorbed 
by  the  parrot  and  cage,  as  by  a  green 
medicine  bottle,  containing  some  clear- 
looking  liquid,  and  a  teacup  without 
a  handle.  These  two  latter  articles 
were  standing  immediately  before  her. 

Several  years  ago,  Mrs.  Bond's  eld- 
est daughter,  Peggy,  a  damsel  who 
had  not  borne  the  brightest  of  charac- 
ters, as  to  sober  steadiness,  had  got 
taken  out  to  Australia  by  a  family  to 
whom  she  engaged  herself  as  nurse- 
girl.  After  sundry  vicissitudes  in 
that  country, — which  she  duly  chron- 
icled home  to  her  mother,  and  that 
lady  was  wont  to  relate  in  convivial 
moments,  over  tea  or  any  other  social 
beverage, — Peggy  had  come  to  an 
anchor  by  marrying.  She  wrote  word 
that  her  husband  was  an  industrious 
young  carpenter,  who  was  making  his 
fortin,  and  they  was  quite  at  ease  in 
the  world.  As  a  proof  of  the  latter 
statements  he  had  sent  over  a  parrot 
to  her  mother,  as  a  keepsake,  and  a 
trifle  of  money,  which  would  be  safely 
delivered  by  a  friend,  who  was  going 
the  home-vovaa:e. 

The  friend  was  faithful.  He  had 
arrived  on  his  mission  that  very  morn- 


ing at  Mrs.  Bond's,  delivering  the 
parrot  uninjured  and  in  rude  health, — 
if  his  capacity  for  screaming  might 
be  taken  as  a  criterion.  The  money 
turned  out  to  be  eleven  pounds ;  a 
ten-pound  note,  and  a  sovereign  in  gold. 
Peggy  probably  knew  enough  of  her 
mother  to  be  certain  that  the  first 
outlay  made  would  be  for  "  something 
comforting,"  and  this  may  have  in- 
duced her  to  add  a  sovereign,  in  some 
faint  hope  that  the  note  would  be  pre- 
served intact.  Mrs.  Bond  had  the 
sense  to  discern  this  motive  of  Peggy's, 
and  openly  spoke  of  it  to  Maria.  She 
was  in  an  open  mood.  In  point  of  fact 
she  had  gone  right  off  to  Prior's  Ash 
and  changed  the  sovereign,  bringing 
home  that  green  bottle  full  of — com- 
fort. It  was  three  parts  empty  now, 
and  Mrs.  Bond,  in  consequence,  had 
become  rather  warm  in  the  face,  and 
was  slipping  some  of  her  long  words. 

"But  you  will  not  think  of  chang- 
ing the  note,  will  you?"  returned  Ma- 
ria, in  answer  to  what  Mrs.  Bond  dis- 
closed. "  How  useful  it  would  be  to 
you  in  the  winter  for  clothing  and  fire 
— if  you  would  only  keep  it  until 
then." 

"  So  it  'ould,"  responded  Mrs.  Bond. 

She  dived  into  her  pocket,  and 
brought  forth  the  note  and  a  handful 
of  silver,  all  lying  there  loose  amidst  a 
miscellaneous  collection.  "Don't  it 
look  pretty  !"  cried  she. 

"  Yery,"  said  Maria,  not  certain 
whether  she  alluded  to  the  parrot,  or 
the  money,  for  Mrs.  Bond's  eyes  were 
not  remarkably  direct  in  their  glances 
just  now.  "  Too  pretty  to  spend," 
she  added,  in  reference  to  the  note. 
"  You  had  better  give  it  to  papa,  Mrs. 
Bond,  and  let  him  take  care  of  it  for 
you." 

Mrs.  Bond  shook  her  head  at  this 
proposition.  "  Once  the  parson  gets 
hold  on  any  little  bit  of  our  money  to 
keep,  he  ain't  free  to  give  it  up  again," 
she  objected.  "'Keep  it  for  this,' 
says  he,  or  'keep  it  for  that ;'  and  it 
ends  in  its  being  laid  out  as  he  likes, 
not  as  us  do." 

"  As  you  please,  of  course,"  rejoined 
Maria.     "  I   only  thought   it   a  pity 


250 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


you  should  not  derive  some  real  bene- 
fit from  this  money.  If  you  keep  it 
yourself  you  may  be  induced  to 
change  it,  and  then  it  might  dwindle 
away  in  trifles,  and  do  you  no  good." 

"That  it  'ould !"  acknowledged 
Mrs.  Bond.  ■  "  IVe  a 'most  a  mind  to 
let  it  be  took  care  on,  after  all.  If 
'twas  anybody  but  the  rector  !" 

"  Shall  I  keep  it  for  you  ?"  asked 
Maria. 

"  Well  now,  'ould  you,  ma'am  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  will, — if  you  please." 

Mrs.  Bond  detached  the  note  from 
the  silver  and  other  articles  which  she 
had  brought  up  indiscriminately  from 
her  pocket.  They  lay  in  her  capacious 
lap,  and  appeared  to  afford  food  for 
gratification  to  Meta,  who  had  come 
round  from  the  parrot  to  look  at  them. 
A  brass  thimble,  a  damp  blue-bag, 
some  halfpence,  a  receipt  for  curing 
corns,  a  piece  of  ginger,  and  the  end  of 
a  tallow-candle,  with  a  long  snuff,  be- 
ing amongst  the  items. 

"  You'll  promise  to  let  me  have  it 
back  if  I  ask  for  it  ?"  cried  she,  clutch- 
ing the  note  tight  in  her  hand,  and 
waiting  for  Maria's  promise  before  she 
would  surrender  it. 

"  Certainly  I  will.  Whenever  you 
wish  for  it,  you  shall  have  it.  Only," 
Maria  added,  smiling,  "  if  you  ask  for 
it  too  soon,  I  shall  beg  you  still  to 
let  me  keep  it  on.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber how  sadly  off  you  were  last  win- 
ter ?  Just  think  what  a  ten-pound 
note  would  have  done  for  you  then, 
Mrs.  Bond  !" 

"  Lawks,  nj !  It  'ud  a  got  me 
through  the  cold  beautiful." 

"And  I  hope  you  will  let  this  get 
you  through  next  year's  cold,"  re- 
turned Maria,  putting  the  note  in  her 
purse. 

"Ay,  sure  !  But  now,  ain't  it  kind 
o'  Peggy  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  is  delightful  to  hear  that 
she  is  so  well  settled  at  last." 

"I've  been  a-drinking  her  health, 
and  better  luck  still,"  said  Mrs.  Bond, 
taking  the  cork  out  of  the  bottle,  and 
pouring  out  the  half  of  its  remaining 
contents.  "  'Ould  ye  just  take  a  drain, 
ma'am  ?" 


"'No,  thank  vou,"  replied  Maria. 
"  I  don't  like  the"  smell  of  it," 

"  No  !"  returned  Mrs.  Bond,  who, 
truth  to  say,  but  for  the  "  drains  "  she 
had  taken  herself,  and  which  had 
tended  slightly  to  muddle  her  percep- 
tions, would  never  have  thought  of 
proffering  the  invitation.  "Not  like 
the  smell  !  It  were  tenpence  the  half- 
pint  !" 

Maria  took  the  child's  hand.  Meta 
gave  it  reluctantly  :  that  new  sight, 
the  parrot,  possessing  attraction  for 
her.  "  I'll  come  again  and  see  it  to- 
morrow," said  she  to  Mrs.  Bond.  "  I'll 
come  with  Margery.  I  am  coming  to 
play  in  the  hay-field." 

"Ay,"  returned  Mrs.  Bond.  "Ain't 
it  pretty  !     It's  the  best  Old  Tom." 

She  was  evidently  getting  a  little 
indisposed  in  the  intellects.  Had  Ma- 
ria been  a  strong-minded  district  vis- 
itor, given  to  reforming  the  evils  of 
the  parish,  she  might  have  read  Mrs. 
Bond  a  lecture  on  sobriety,  and  walked 
off  with  the  bottle.  Mrs.  Bond  and 
such  medicine-bottles  had,  however, 
been  too  long  and  well  acquainted  with 
each  other  to  admit  any  hope  of  their 
effectual  parting  now ;  and  the  last 
thing  Maria  caught,  as  she  glanced 
back,  was  a  vision  of  that  lady's  head 
thrown  back,  the  inverted  teacup  on 
her  lips. 

"  The  note  would  have  been  changed 
before  the  week  was  out !"  was  Ma- 
ria's mental  comment. 

Without  further  adventure,  she 
reached  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly. 
Charlotte  had  visitors.  A  country 
squire's  wife,  with  her  two  daughters, 
had  come  for  a  few  days  from  their 
sober  residence  at  a  few  miles'  distance, 
to  the  attractions  of  the  Folly.  Char- 
lotte could  make  it  attractive  when 
she  liked ;  and  invitations  to  it  were 
in  demand,  which  has  been  previously 
remarked.  If  people  did  think  Mrs 
Pain  somewhat  "  fast"  in  her  manner?, 
she  was  no  faster  than  some  others. 
And  it  is  said  to  be  the  fashion,  you 
know. 

Charlotte  was  in  one  of  her  pleas- 
antest  moods,  and  Maria  had  rarely 
seen  her   look  so  well.     She  wore  a 


THE      SnADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


251 


morning-dress  of  pink-spotted  muslin, 
made  simply,  and  confined  at  the  waist 
by  a  band.  Her  hair  was  dressed 
simply,  also,  brought  rather  low  on  her 
cheeks,  and  rolled :  even  Margery 
could  not  have  found  fault  with  her 
looks  that  morning. 

Or  with  her  manner  either.  She 
regaled  Meta  with  strawberries  ;  and 
when  they  were  finished,  caught  her 
up  in  her  arms,  and  carried  her  out  by 
the  glass  door. 

"  Do  not  keep  her  long,  Mrs. 
Pain,"  said  Maria.  "  I  must  be  go- 
ing." 

"Where  is  your  hurry?"  asked 
Charlotte. 

"  I  am  going  on  to  Ashlydyat." 

Charlotte  departed  with  Meta,  and 
Maria  continued  with  the  ladies,  Char- 
lotte's guests.  They  had  been  talking 
a  few  minutes,  when  loud  screams  of 
terror  from  Meta  alarmed  their  ears. 
Maria  hastened  out  in  the  direction  of 
the  sound,  her  cheeks  and  lips  alike 
blanched. 

She  came  upon  them, — Charlotte 
and  the  child, — in  that  secluded,  lovely 
spot  amidst  the  grove  of  trees,  where 
Charlotte  Pain, — and  you  saw  her, — 
had  held  an  interview  with  her  future 
husband,  Rodolf,  on  George  Godol- 
phin's  wedding-day.  Charlotte  had 
carried  the  child  there,  and  set  her  on 
the  mossy  turf,  and  called  her  dogs 
around.  She  had  done  it,  thinking  to 
give  pleasure  to  the  child  :  but  Meta 
was  of  a  timid  nature  ;  she  was  not 
used  to  dogs  ;  and  upon  one  of  them 
springing  on  her  with  a  bark,  "  all  for 
play,"  as  Charlotte  said,  her  fear  broke 
forth  in  terrific  cries.  When  Maria 
reached  them,  Charlotte  had  caught 
up  Meta  in  her  arms,  and  was  kicking 
the  dogs  off. 

Meta  sprung  from  Charlotte's  arms 
to  her  mother's,  with  a  great  cry. 
Maria,  not  so  strongly-framed  as  Char- 
lotte, could  not  hold  this  child  of 
between  five  and  six  at  her  ease,  but 
was  fain  to  stagger  with  her  to  the 
garden  bench.  Meta  lay  in  her  lap, 
clinging  to  her  and  sobbing  convul- 
sively. 


"  My  darling,  what  is  it  ?"  whis- 
pered Maria.    "  What  has  hurt  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  mamma,  send  them  away. 
Send  them  away !"  cried  the  little 
imploring  voice. 

"  Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  send 
the  dogs  away,  Mrs.  Pain  ?"  asked 
Maria.  "  I  think  she  is  frightened  at 
them." 

"  I  know  she  is,  foolish  little  thing  !" 
answered  Charlotte,  going  off  with 
the  dogs.  Apparently  she  disposed 
of  them  somewhere,  for  she  was 
back  the  next  minute  without  them. 
Maria  was  in  the  same  place,  holding 
her  child  to  her  heart. 

"  Mrs.  George  Godolphin,  don't  you 
think  you  will  have  to  answer  some- 
time for  the  manner  in  which  you 
are  rearing  that  child  ?"  began  she 
gravely. 

"  In  what  way  ?"  returned  Maria. 

"  You  are  bringing  her  up  to  be  as 
timid  as  yourself." 

"Am  I  particularly  timid  ?" 

"  You  !  Why  you  know  you  are. 
You  don't  ride ;  you'd  not  drive  for 
the  world  ;  you  are  afraid  of  dogs  ?" 

"I  could  manage  to  ride  a  quiet 
pony,"  said  Maria.  "As  to  dogs,  I 
confess  that  I  am  a  little  afraid  of 
them,  if  they  are  rough." 

"  If  a  dog  only  barks,  you  call  it 
'rough,'"  retorted  Charlotte.  "But 
now,  what  has  been  the  fault  in  all 
this  ? — why,  your  defective  education. 
Had  you  been  reared  amongst  horses 
and  dogs,  you  might  have  been  as 
bold  with  them  as  I  am.  And  you 
are  bringing  up  that  child  to  the  same 
deficiencies." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  essential  that  a 
child  should  be  reared  amongst  horses 
and  dogs,"  debated  Maria.  "For 
myself,  I  am  naturally  timid,  and  I  do 
not  think  any  amount  of  use  would 
entirely  overcome  it.  Meta  is  the 
same.  Although  she  seems  so  gay 
and  laughing,  she  is  a  gentle,  timid 
child  at  heart.  See  how  she  trembles 
still  ?" 

"Yes,  I  see,  poor  little  dear  !  It  is 
not  her  fault.  Meta,  pretty  one,  they 
were  only  playing  with  you.    Do  you 


252 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT 


know  what  I  should  do,  were  the  child 
mine  ?"  she  resumed  to  Maria. 

"  No.     What  ?" 

"  I  should  just  put  her  down  again, 
and  call  the  dogs  round  her,  and  let 
her  battle  it  out  with  them.  They 
would  not  hurt  her;  there's  no  fear 
of  that ;  and  it  would  teach  her  to 
overcome  the  fear." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Pain  !"  Maria  involun- 
tarily strained  her  child  closer  to  her, 
and  Meta,  who  had  heard  the  words, 
pushed  her  little  hot  face  of  distress 
nearer  to  its  shelter.  "It might  send 
her  into  such  a  state  of  terror,  that 
she  would  never  get  over  it.  She 
would  be  frightened  at  dogs  for  her 
life.  That  is  not  the  way  to  treat 
children,  indeed,  Mrs.  Pain  !" 

"  It  is  the  way  I  should  treat  mine, 
if  I  had  any  :  the  Avay  to  make  them 
grow  up  brave,  and  not  little  cowards. 
It  is  the  way  I  should  have  Meta 
treated,  for  her  own  sake,  had  I  any 
influence  over  her." 

Perhaps  Maria  felt  thankful  that 
Charlotte  had  not.  But  she  could 
not  admit  that  Meta  had  shown  undue 
timidity  in  this  instance.  "  Most 
children  would  be  frightened,  Mrs. 
Pain,  at  being  surrounded  suddenly 
by  a  crowd  of  barking  dogs." 

"  Granted, — if  they  have  been  reared 
as  Meta  has.  I  wonder  Mr.  George 
Godolphin  does  not  see  to  it." 

"I  don't  think  he  would  wish  her  to 
be  too  bold  with  dogs, — or  brave, as  you 
would  call  it,"  was  the  quiet  reply  of 
Maria.  "  I  have  seen  her  play  with 
one  little  dog.  It  was  a  crowd  of 
them,  the  noise,  that  frightened  her." 

Meta  could  not  be  coaxed  down 
again.  Maria  was  not  strong  enough 
to  carry  her  to  the  house,  so  Char- 
lotte took  her  up  in  her  arms.  But 
the  child  would  not  loose  her  hand 
from  her  mother's,  and  Maria  had  to 
walk  along,  holding  it. 

"  You  pretty  little  timid  goose  !" 
cried  Charlotte,  kissing  her.  "  What- 
ever would  you  do  if  you  were  to 
lose  your  mamma  ?" 

"  It  would  be  a  calamity,  would  it 
not,  Meta  ?"  said  Maria,  speaking  in 


a  half-joking    tone ;    and    Charlotte 
answered  in.  the  same  light  spirit. 

"A  calamity  in  one  sense,  of  course. 
But  she  might  get  a  chance  then  of 
having  a  little  of  the  rust  rubbed  out 
of  her." 

Maria  smiled,  a  smile  of  politeness. 
"  What  do  you  call  rust  ?"  she  asked, 

"  It  is  what  you  would  term  timidi- 
ty :  I,  cowardice.  Meta,  we  must 
get  some  more  strawberries  after  this." 

But  Meta  could  not  be  seduced  to 
strawberries.  The  dogs  had  terrified 
her  too  effectually,  and  she  was  in 
bodily  dread  that  they  might  come 
again.  Maria  said  farewell,  and  led 
her  away,  bending  her  steps  to 
Ashlydyat. 

She  found  the  Miss  Godolphins 
alone.  Janet  was  reading  some  seri- 
ous work  ;  Bessy  was  looking  over 
her  accounts  of  the  "  clothing-fund" 
of  All  Souls'  parish  ;  Cecil  was  seated 
near  the  window,  doing  nothing,  save 
dreamily  gazing  out  of  it.  Quiet  and 
settled  they  all  looked,  until  Meta 
arrived  to  upset  them.  Meta,  an 
intense  favorite,  was  allowed  to  upset 
Ashlydyat  as  she  pleased, — to  do 
any  thing  in  it  except  run  into  unused 
passages. 

Cecil  woke  out  of  her  reverie, 
caught  hold  of  Meta  to  run  away  with 
her  and  take  her  things  off;  now  she 
was  there,  she  must  stay  for  the  day  ; 
they  could  not  let  her  depart  again. 
Meta's  feet,  however,  were  rooted  to 
the  carpet  until  she  had  asked  a 
question:  "Would  the  dogs  come  to 
her." 

So  Maria  had  to  explain :  that 
Meta  had  been  frightened  by  Mrs. 
Pain's  dogs.  Janet  gravely  assured 
her  that  the  dogs  would  not  come  to 
Ashlydyat,  and  Meta  allowed  herself 
to  be  taken  possession  of  by  Cecil, 
introducing  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Bond's 
beautiful  parrot  and  its  large  cage  as 
she  was  going  away. 

"  We  have  heard  about  the  parrot," 
remarked  Bessy  to  Maria.  "  Susan 
Satcherly  hobbled  up  here  this  morn- 
ing, and  mentioned  its  arrival.  Susan 
hopes  it  won't  scream  all  night  as  well 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T , 


253 


as  all  day  ;  she  can  hear  it  next  door 
as  though  the  parrot  were  present 
there.  A  ten-pound  note  has  come 
also,  she  says.  Which  I  am  almost 
sorry  for,"  added  Bessy;  "though  I 
suppose  Mrs.  Bond  would  think  me 
terribly  ill-natured  if  she  heard  me  say 
so.  She  will  change  that  note  to-day, 
and  never  rest  until  the  last  shilling 
of  it  shall  be  spent." 

"  No,  she  will  not,"  returned  Maria, 
laughing,  and  holding  out  the  note  in 
triumph.  "  She  has  given  it  to  me  to 
keep  for  her. " 

"  Never  !"  exclaimed  Bessy,  in  sur- 
prise. "You  must  have  exercised 
some  sleight-of-hand,  Maria,  to  get 
that !" 

Maria  laughed.  "  She  was  in  an 
unusually  tractable  humor,  Bessy. 
The  fact  is,  a  sovereign  had  arrived  as 
well  as  the  bank-note :  and  that  she 
had  changed." 

Bessy  nodded  her  head.  She  knew 
Mrs,  Bond  of  old.  "  I  understand," 
said  she.  "  Was  she  very  bad, 
Maria  ?" 

"  No  ;  not  then, 
what  she  may  be 

over.  She  pulled  a  handful  of  silver 
out  of  her  pocket." 

"  Now  mind,  Maria, — don't  you  give 
her  up  that  note,  let  her  ask  for  it 
ever  so,"  advised  Bessy.  "Keep  it 
until  winter." 

"  If  I  can, — if  she  will  allow  me," 
replied  Maria.  "  But  she  only  re- 
signed it  to  me  on  condition  that  I 
would  give  it  up  to  her  if  she  asked 
for  it.     I  promised  that  I  would." 

"  /should  not ;  promise  or  no  pro- 
mise," returned  Bessy.  "  The  keep- 
ing it  would  be  for  her  good,  you 
know,  Maria." 

Maria  shook  her  head.  She  could 
not  be  strong-n.inded,  like  Bessy  was, 
acting  for  people's  good  against  their 
will ;  and  she  could  not  go  from  her 
promise.  She  returned  the  note  to 
her  purse,  knowing  that  Mrs.  Bond 
would  get  it,  if  she  chose  to  de- 
mand it. 

Maria  was  easily  persuaded  to  re- 
main for  the  day  at  Ashlydyat.  She 
sat  at  the  window  in  the  heisrht  of 


But  I  can't  say 
before  the  day  is 


enjoyment.  It  was  enjoyment  to 
Maria  Godolphin  :  the  sitting  in  idle 
stillness  on  a  calm  summer's  day. 
The  lovely  flowers  of  Ashlydyat's  gar- 
den, its  velvet  lawns,  were  stretched 
out  before  her  ;  the  white  walls  of 
Lady  Godolphin's  Folly  rose  in  the 
distance  ;  and  Maria  sat  in  the  easy- 
chair  in  luxurious  listlessness,  her  fair 
white  hands  tying  in  her  lap.  Meta 
was  away  somewhere,  fascinating  the 
household,  and  all  was  rest.  Rest 
from  exertion,  rest  from  care.  The 
time  came  when  Maria  looked  back 
on  that  day  of  peace  at  Ashlydyat : 
and  believed  it  must  have  been 
heaven. 

Janet  sent  a  note  to  the  bank,  to 
desire  George  to  come  up  to  dinner 
with  Thomas.  When  Thomas  arrived, 
however,  he  was  alone.  George  was 
out,  therefore  the  note  had  not  been 
given  him.  They  supposed  he  would 
be  up  in  the  evening,  and  dined  with- 
out him. 

But  the  evening  passed  on,  and  he 
did  not  come.  Thomas's  private 
opinion  was  that  George  must  have 
remained  to  search  for  the  missing 
deed.  Thomas  could  not  be  easy 
under  such  a  misfortune, — as  it  might 
in  truth  be  called.  The  sum  was  by 
far  too  weighty  a  one  to  be  lost  with 
equanimity.  And  that  was  not  all : 
there  was  the  unpleasant  uncertainty 
with  regard  to  the  disappearance. 
Thomas  mentioned  the  matter  in  con- 
fidence amongst  them.  At  least,  to 
Maria  and  Janet :  the  other  two  had 
gone  out  with  Meta.  Janet  observed 
that  he  appeared  absorbed  in  thought, 
as  if  uneasy  at  something ;  and  he 
readily  acknowledged  that  he  had  been 
rendered  uneasy  by  a  circumstance 
which  had  occurred  during  the  day  : 
the  missing  of  some  deeds  that  they 
had  believed  to  be  in  safe  custody. 

"What  if  you  cannot  find  them, 
Thomas  ?"  asked  Janet. 

"  Then  we  must  make  good  the 
loss." 

"  Is  it  to  a  heavy  amount  ?" 

"Yery." 

Janet  looked  startled.  Thomas's 
grave  nianaer  did  not  tend  to  reassure 


254 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


her.     She  gave  utterance  to  some  half 
articulate  words. 

"  It  is  a  heavy  amount  as  a  loss," 
explained  Thomas.  "In  fact,  it  is  a 
large  sum  in  itself.  It  would  cost 
us  over  sixteen  thousand  pounds  to 
make  it  good." 

Janet  lifted  her  hands  in  dismay. 
"And  all  from  the  loss  of  a  single 
packet  of  deeds  !" 

"Even  so." 

"  But  how  can  they  have  been  lost  ?" 

"  There  it  is,"  said  Thomas  Godol- 
phin.  "  If  we  could  tell  as  much  as 
that,  it  would  be  some  satisfaction. 
We  cannot  imagine  how  or  when  they 
were  lost.  George  missed  them  a 
month  ago,  but " 

"  A  month  ago  !  Did  George  miss 
them  a  month  ago  ?" 

It  was  Maria  who  interrupted, 
eagerness  in  her  manner  and  voice. 
It  had  occurred  to  her  that  the  fact 
might  account  for  a  certain  restless- 
ness, an  anxiety  in  George's  manner, 
which  she  had  not  failed  to  remark  in 
it  of  late.  The  next  words  of  Thomas 
Godolphin  served  to  dissipate  the 
illusion. 

"  George  looked  for  the  deeds  a 
month  ago.  Not  finding  them  in  the 
box,  he  concluded  that  I  had  moved 
them.  Therefore  we  cannot  be  said 
to  have  known  of  the  loss  until  to- 
day." 

"  George  ought  to  have  asked  you," 
said  Janet. 

"  Yes,  he  ought,"  acquiesced  Thomas. 
But  it  was  all  he  said. 

"  It  is  just  like  careless  George  !" 
exclaimed  Janet.  "  Should  the  time 
ever  come  that  he  is  sole  at  the  bank, 
I  do  not  know  how  it  will  get  on  ! 
To  whom  did  the  deeds  belong, 
Thomas  ?" 

"To  Lord  Averil." 

"  You  are  sure  you  had  them  ?" 
asked  cautious  Janet. 

A  half  smile  crossed  Thomas  Godol- 
phin's  lips.  "  Quite  sure,  Janet. 
You  understand,"  he  added,  looking 
at  them  both,  "we  do  not  care  that 
this  should  be  spoken  of.  You  are 
safe,  I  know,  Janet,  and  Maria  would 
most  likely  hear  it  from  George." 


Maria  had  been  buried  in  a  reverie. 
"  I  cannot  conceive  how  it  is  possible 
for  any  thing  to  have  been  lost  from 
the  strong-room,"  she  said,  lifting  her 
head.  "  All  about  us  are  trustworthy. 
And,  were  they  not,  there  would  be 
no  practicability  of  their  getting  to  the 
safes  in  the  strong-room. " 

"You  are  right,  Maria,"  said 
Thomas.  "  I  have  thought  of  it  until 
I  am  bewildered." 

Maria  seemed  to  be  getting  bewil- 
dered also.  She  was  thinking  of  it  in 
its  every  aspect  and  bearing.  Many 
little  back  incidents,  proving  that  her 
husband  was  ill  at  ease,  had  some- 
thing on  his  mind,  rushed  into  her 
memory.  She  had  not  thought  much 
of  them  before  :  but  they  grew  strange- 
ly vivid  now.  The  missing  of  deeds 
of  this  value  would  amply  account 
for  it. 

"  Thomas,"  said  she,  speaking  out 
her  thoughts,  "  do  you  not  think 
George  must  have  feared  there  was 
something  wrong,  when  he  missed 
them  at  first  ?     I  do." 

"  No.     Why  do  you  think  it  ?" 

"  Because "    Maria  stopped.   It 

suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  it  might 
not  be  quite  right  to  comment  upon 
her  husband's  manner,  what  it  had,  or 
what  it  had  not  been  ;  that  he  might 
not  like  her  to  do  it,  although  it  was 
only  to  his  brother  and  sister.  So  she 
turned  it  off:  speaking  any  indifferent 
words  that  came  uppermost. 

"  It  is  curious,  missing  a  packet  of 
deeds  of  that  value  from  its  place,  that 
he  should  not  have  feared  it  might  be 
missing  in  reality." 

"  The  very  fact  of  his  not  asking 
me  about  it,  Maria,  proves  that  no 
suspicion  of  wrong  crossed  his  mind," 
was  the  comment  of  Thomas  Godol- 
phin. "  He  supposed  I  had  placed  it 
elsewhere." 

"That's  just  like  George!"  repeated 
Janet.  "  Taking  things  on  trust,  like 
he  takes  people  !  A  child  might  de- 
ceive him." 

"  I  hope  we  shall  find  them  yet," 
said  Thomas  Godolphin. 

"Does  Lord  Averil " 

What  Janet  might  be  going  to  in- 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


255 


quire  was  never  known.  The  words 
were  stopped  by  a  strange  noise,  an 
appalling  noise,  apparently  at  the 
very  door  of  the  room  they  were  sit- 
ting in.  A  loud,  prolonged,  discord- 
ant noise,  unlike  any  thing  they  had 
ever  heard.  Some  might  have  com- 
pared it  to  the  shrieks  of  a  strong 
giant  in  his  agony  ;  some  to  the  hoarse 
bcreams  of  a  bird  of  prey.  But  it  was 
unlike  either  :  it  was  unlike  any  thing 
earthly. 

With  one  bound,  they  flew  to  the 
hall,  on  which  the  room  opened,  Maria 
white  with  terror.  The  servants  came 
rushing  from  their  apartments,  and 
stood  in  consternation. 

What  was  the  noise  ?  What  had 
caused  it  ?  The  questions  were  pour- 
ing forth  from  all.  The  hall  was  per- 
fectly empty,  save  for  the  startled 
gazers  ;  the  doors  and  windows  had 
been  closed.  Thomas  walked  to  the 
entrance-door  and  looked  beyond  it, 
beyond  the  porch,  but  nothing  was 
there.  The  space  was  empty ;  the 
evening  was  calm  and  still.  At  a 
distance,  borne  on  the  evening  air, 
could  be  heard  the  merry  laughter  of 
Meta,  playing  with  Bessy  and  Cecil. 
Thomas  came  in  and  closed  the  door 
again. 

"  I  cannot  think  what  it  could  have 
been  I"  he  observed,  speaking  gener- 
ally. 

The  servants  were  ready  with  an- 
swering remarks.  One  had  thought 
this  ;  one  had  thought  that ;  another, 
something  else.  They  ranged  their 
eyes  curiously  up  and  around,  as  ac- 
curately as  the  growing  darkness 
w©uld  permit.  Maria  had  laid  hold 
of  Janet :  glad,  perhaps,  that  it  was 
too  dark  for  her  white  face  to  be  dis- 
cerned. It  was  the  sound  which  had 
so  terrified  her  :  no  association  in  her 
mind  was  connected  with  it :  and  it 
was  the  sound  which  had  terrified  the 
servants  and  sent  their  faces  white. 
They  had  never  heard  a  sound  like 
unto  it  in  all  their  lives. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  night-bird, 


shrieking  as  he  flew  over  the  house," 
observed  Mr.  Godolphin. 

But,  in  truth,  he  so  spoke  only  in 
the  absence  of  any  other  possible  as- 
sumption, and  against  his  own  belief. 
No  bird  of  prey,  known  to  ornitholo- 
gy, could  have  made  that  noise,  even 
had  he  been  inside  the  hall  to  do  it. 
Ten  birds  of  prey  could  not  have 
made  it.  Thomas,  like  the  rest,  felt 
bewildered. 

The  servants  began  to  move  away. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  in  the 
dark  hall  more  than  usual ;  nothing 
to  be  heard.  As  the  last  one  disap- 
peared, Thomas  turned  to  the  drawing- 
room  door,  and  held  it  open  for  his 
sister  and  Maria. 

At  that  moment,  at  that  very  mo- 
ment when  they  had  gone  in  and 
Thomas  was  following,  the  noise  came 
again.  Loud,  prolonged,  shrill,  un- 
earthly !  What  was  it  ?  Were  the 
rafters  of  the  house  loosening  ?  the 
walls  rending  asunder  ?  Were  the 
skies  opening  for  the  crack  of  doom  ? 
They  gathered  in  the  hall  again  ;  mas- 
ter, ladies,  servants  ;  and  stood  there, 
motionless,  appalled,  bewildered,  their 
faces  whiter  than  before. 

Its  echoes  died  away  to  the  tune  of 
shrieks.  Human  shrieks  this  time,  and 
not  unfamiliar.  One  of  the  women- 
servants,  excited  beyond  repression, 
had  fallen  into  hysterics. 

But  whence  had  proceeded  that 
noise  ?  Where  had  been  its  centre  ? 
Outside  the  house,  or  inside  the  house? 
— in  its  walls,  in  its  passages,  in  its 
hall  ? — where  ?  Its  sound  had  been 
everywhere.  In  short,  what  had 
caused  it  ?  what  had  it  been  ? 

They  could  not  tell.  It  was  a 
problem  beyond  human  philosphy  to 
solve.  They  could  not  tell  then  ; 
they  could  not  tell  afterwards  It  has 
been  no  ideal  scene  that  I  have  depicted, 
as  I  could  call  upon  living  witnesses 
to  testify, — witnesses  who  can  no 
more  account  for  those  unearthly 
sounds  now,  than  they  could  account 
for  them  then. 


256 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  1)  Y  A  T 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

ISAAC  HASTINGS  TURNS  TO  THINKING. 

The  revelation  to  Isaac  Hastings, 
that  the  deeds,  missing,  belonged  to 
Lord  Averil,  set  that  young  gentle- 
man thinking.  Like  his  father,  like  his 
sister  Grace,  he  was  an  exceedingly 
accurate  observer,  given  to  take  note 
of  passing  events.  He  had  keen  per- 
ception, a  retentive  memory  for  trifles, 
great  powers  of  comparison  and  con- 
centration. What  with  one  thing 
and  another,  he  had  been  a  little 
puzzled  lately  by  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin.  There  had  been  sundry  odds 
and  ends,  out  of  the  common,  to  be 
detected  in  Mr.  George's  manner, — 
not  patent  to  the  generality  of  people 
who  are  mostly  unobservant,  but  suf- 
ficiently conspicuous  to  Isaac  Hast- 
ings. Anxiety  about  letters  ;  trifles 
in  the  every-day  conduct  of  the  bank  ; 
one  little  circumstance,  touching  a 
delay  in  paying  some  money,  which 
Isaac,  and  he  alone,  had  become  acci- 
dentally cognizant  of ;  all  formed  food 
for  speculation.  There  had  been  the 
somewhat  doubtful  affair  of  George 
Godolphin's  secret  journey  to  London, 
leaving  word  with  his  wife  that  he  was 
accompanying  Captain  St.  Aubyn  on 
the  road  to  Portsmouth,  which  had 
traveled  to  the  knowledge  of  Isaac 
through  the  want  of  reticence  of  Char- 
lotte Pain.  More  than  all,  making 
more  impression  upon  Isaac,  had 
been  the  strange,  shrinking  fear  dis- 
played by  George  that  Saturday  when 
he  had  announced  Lord  Averil, — a 
fear  succeeded  by  a  confusion  of  man- 
ner that  proved  his  master  must  for 
the  moment  have  lost  his  presence  of 
mind  utterly.  Isaac  Hastings  had 
announced  the  names  of  other  gentle- 
men that  day  and  the  announcement, 
equally  with  themselves,  had  been 
received  with  the  most  perfect  equa- 
nimity. Isaac  had  often  thought  of 
that  little  episode  since,  and  won- 
dered,— wondered  what  there  could 
be  in  Lord  Averil's  visit  to  scare  Mr. 
George  Godolphin.  It  recurred  to 
him   now   with   double   distinctness. 


The  few  words  he  had  overheard, 
spoken  between  Lord  Averil  and  Mr. 
Godolphin, — the  former  saying  that 
George  must  have  known  of  the  loss 
of  the  deeds  Avhen  he  had  asked  for 
them  a  month  ago,  that  he  judged  so 
by  his  mannei",  which  was  peculiar, 
hesitating,  uncertain,  "  as  though  he 
had  known  of  the  loss  then,  and  did 
not  like  to  tell  of  it." 

To  the  strangeness  of  manner,  Isaac 
himself  could  have  borne  ready  wit- 
ness. Had  this  strangeness  been 
caused  by  the  knowledge  of  the  loss 
of  the  deeds? — if  so,  why  did  not 
George  Godolphin  make  a  stir  about 
them  then  ?  Only  on  the  previous 
clay,  when  Lord  Averil  had  again  made 
his  appearance,  Isaac  had  been  further 
struck  with  George's  startled  hesita- 
tion, and  with  his  refusal  to  see  him. 
He  had  sent  out  word,  as  the  plea  of 
excuse,  that  he  was  particularly  en- 
gaged :  Isaac  had  believed  at  the  time 
that  George  was  no  more  engaged 
than  he  was.  And  now,  this  morn- 
ing, when  it  could  not  be  concealed 
any  longer,  came  the  commotion.  The 
deeds  were  gone ;  they  had  disappeared 
from  their  secure  abiding-place  in  the 
most  unaccountable  manner, — nobody 
knowing  how  or  when. 

What  did  it  all  mean  ?  Isaac  Hast- 
ings asked  himself  the  question  as  he 
pursued  his  business  in  the  bank, 
amidst  the  other  clerks.  He  could  not 
help  asking  U.  A  mind,  constituted 
as  was  that  of  Isaac  Hastings,  thought- 
ful, foreseeing, penetrating,  cannot  help 
entering  upon  these  speculations  when 
surrounding  circumstances  call  them 
forth.  Could  it  be  that  George  Go- 
dolphin had  fallen  into  secret  embar- 
rassment ? — that  he — that  he — had  ab- 
stracted the  deed  himself,  and  used  it  ? 
Isaac  felt  his  cheek  flush  with  shame 
at  the  thought, — with  shame  that  he 
should  allow  himself  to  think  such  a 
thing  of  a  Godolphin  ;  and  yet,  he 
could  not  help  it.  No.  Do  as  he 
would,  he  could  not  drive  the  thought 
away:  it  remained  to  haunt  him.  And 
the  longer  it  stayed,  the  more  vivid  it 
grew. 

Ought  he  to  give  a  hint  of  this  to 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T 


257 


his  father  ?  He  did  not  know.  On 
the  one  hand  there  was  sober  reason, 
which  told  him  George  Godolphin  was 
not  likely  to  be  guilty  of  such  a  thing  ; 
on  the  other,  lay  his  fancy,  whisper- 
ing that  it  might  be.  Things  as  strange 
had  been  enacted  lately,  as  the  public 
knew.  Men,  in  an  equally  good  posi- 
tion with  George  Godolphin,  were 
proved  to  have  been  living  upon  fraud 
for  years.  Isaac  was  fond  of  newspa- 
pers, and  knew  all  they  could  tell  him. 
What,  if  any  thing  came  wrong  to  this 
bank  ?  Why,  then,  Mr.  Hastings 
would  be  a  ruined  man.  It  was  not 
only  the  loss  of  his  own  life's  savings, 
that  were  in  the  hands  of  Godolphin, 
Crosse  and  Godolphin,  but  there  was 
the^large  sum  he  had  placed  there  as 
trustee  to  the  little  Chisholms. 

Isaac  Hastings  lingered  in  the  bank 
till  the  last  that  evening.  All  had  gone 
except  Mr.  Hurde.  The  latter  was 
preparing  to  leave,  when  Isaac  went 
up  to  him,  leaning  his  arms  upon  the 
desk. 

"  What  a  strange  thing  it  is  about 
those  deeds,  Mr.  Hurde  I"  cried  he,  in 
a  low  tone. 

Mr.  Hurde  nodded. 

"  It  is  troubling  me  amazingly," 
went  on  Isaac. 

This  seemed  to  arouse  the  old 
clerk,  and  he  looked  up,  speaking 
curtly. 

"  Why  should  it  trouble  you  ?  You 
didn't  take  them,  I  suppose." 

"No,  I  didn't,"  said  Isaac. 

"  Yery  well,  then.  The  loss  won't 
fall  upon  you.  There's  no  cause  for  your 
troubling." 

Isaac  was  silent.  In  truth  he  was 
unable  to  give  any  reason  for  the 
"  troubling,"  except  on  general 
grounds  :  he  could  not  say  that  a 
doubt  was  haunting  his  mind  as  to 
the  good  faith  of  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin. 

"It  is  a  loss  which  I  suppose  Mr. 
George  will  have  to  make  good,  as 
they  were  in  his  custody,"  he  re- 
sumed. "  My  sister  won't  like  it,  I 
fear." 

The  observation  recalled  Mr. 
Hurde's  memory  to  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Hi 


George  Godolphin  was  the  sister  of 
Isaac  Hastings.  It  afforded  a  suffi- 
cient excuse  for  the  remarks  in  the 
mind  of  the  clerk,  and  somewhat  molli- 
fied him. 

"  It  is  to  be  hoped  they'll  be  found," 
said  he.  "  I  don't  see  how  they  could 
have  gone." 

"  Nor  I,"  returned  Isaac.  "  The 
worst  is,  if  they  have  gone " 

"What?"  asked  Mr.  Hurde,  for 
Isaac  had  stopped. 

"That  perhaps  money  has  been 
made  of  them." 

Mr.  Hurde  grunted.  "  They  have 
not  been  taken  for  nothing,  you  may 
be  sure." 

"  If  they  have  been  taken,"  persisted 
Isaac. 

"  If  they  have  been  taken,"  assented 
Mr.  Hurde.  "  I  don't  believe  they 
have.  From  the  sheer  impossibility 
of  anybody's  getting  to  them,  I  don't 
believe  it.  And  I  shan't  believe  it, 
until  every  nook  and  corner  between 
the  four  walls  here  shall  have  been 
hunted  over." 

"  How  do  you  account  for  their  dis- 
appearance, then  ?" 

"  I  think  they  must  have  been  moved 
inadvertently." 

"Nobody  could  so  move  them  ex- 
cept Mr.  Godolphin  or  Mr.  George," 
rejoined  Isaac. 

"Mr.  Godolphin  has  not  moved 
them,"  returned  the  clerk,  in  a  testy 
tone  of  reproof.  "Mr.  Godolphin  is 
too  accurate  a  man  of  business  to  move 
deeds  inadvertently,  or  to  move  them 
and  forget  it  the  next  moment.  Mr. 
George  may  have  done  it.  In  search- 
ing for  any  thing  in  the  strong-room, 
if  he  has  had  more  than  one  case  open 
at  once,  he  may  have  put  these  deeds 
back  in  their  wrong  place,  or  even 
brought  them  up-stairs." 

Isaac  considered  for  a  minute,  and 
then  shook  his  head.  "I  should  not 
think  it,"  he  answered. 

"Well,  it  is  the  only  supposition  I 
can  come  to,"  was  the  concluding  re- 
mark of  Mr.  Hurde.  "  It  is  next  to 
an  impossibility,  Mr.  Godolphin  ex- 
cepted, that  anybody  else  can  have  get 
to  the  deeds." 


258 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


He  was  drawing  on  his  gloves  as  he 
spoke  to  depart.  Isaac  went  out  with 
him,  but  their  roads  lay  different  ways. 
Isaac  turned  towards  All  Souls'  rec- 
tory, and  walked  along  in  a  deep 
reverie. 

The  rectory  hours  were  early,  and 
he  found  them  at  tea  :  his  mother, 
Rose,  and  Grace.  Grace — Mrs.  Ake- 
man  by  her  new  name — was  spend- 
ing the  evening  with  them,  with  her 
baby.  The  rector,  who  had  gone  out 
in  the  afternoon,  had  not  come  in 
yet. 

Isaac  took  his  tea,  and  then  strolled 
into  the  garden.  Rose  and  the  baby 
were  making  a  great  noise,  and  Grace 
was  helping  them.  It  disturbed  Isaac 
in  his  perplexed  thought,  and  he  made 
a  mental  vow  that  if  ever  he  got  pro- 
moted to  a  home  of  his  own  with  ba- 
bies in  it,  they  should  be  hermetically 
confined  in  some  top-room,  or  out  of 
sight  and  hearing. 

By-and-by,  when  he  was  leaning 
over  the  gate,  looking  into  the  road, 
Mr.  Hastings  came  up.  Isaac  told 
him  that  tea  was  over  :  but  Mr.  Hast- 
ings said  he  had  taken  a  cup  with  one 
of  his  parishioners.  He  had  appar- 
ently walked  home  quick,  and  he  lift- 
ed his  hat  and  wiped  his  brow. 

"  Glorious  weather  for  the  haymak- 
ing, Isaac  !" 

"Is  it?"  returned  Isaac,  abstract- 
edly. 

"7s  it!"  repeated  Mr.  Hastings. 
"  Where  are  your  senses,  boy  ?" 

Isaac  laughed,  and  roused  himself. 
"  I  fear  they  were  buried  just  then, 
sir.  I  was  thinking  of  something  that 
has  happened  at  the  bank,  to-day.  A 
loss  has  been  discovered." 

"  A  loss  ?"  repeated  Mr.  Hastings. 
"A  loss  of  what?" 

Isaac  explained,  dropping  his  voice 
to  a  low  tone,  and  speaking  confiden- 
tially. They  were  leaning  over  the 
gate,  side  by  side.  Mr.  Hastings  rather 
liked  to  take  recreative  moments  of 
leaning  there,  exchanging  a  nod  and  a 
word  with  the  passers-by.  At  this 
hour  of  the  evening,  however,  the  road 
was  generally  free. 

"  How  can  the  deeds  have  gone  ?" 


exclaimed  Mr.  Hastings, — like  every 
body  else-  said. 

"  I  don't  know," replied  Isaac,  twitch- 
ing off  a  spray  of  the  hedge,  and  be- 
ginning to  bite  at  the  thorns.  "  I 
suppose  it  is  all  right,"  he  presently 
added. 

"  Right  in  what  way  V  asked  Mr. 
Hastings. 

"  I  suppose  George  Godolphin's  all 
right,  I  mean." 

The  words  were  as  an  unknown 
tongue  to  Mr.  Hastings.  He  did  not 
fathom  them.  "  You  suppose  that 
George  Godolphinis  all  right !"  he  ex- 
claimed. "You  speak  in  riddles, 
Isaac." 

"  I  cannot  say  I  susprct  any  thing 
wrong,  sir  ;  but  the  doubt  has  crossed 
me.  It  never  would  have  done  so 
but  for  George  Godolphin's  manner." 

Mr.  Hastings  turned  his  penetra- 
ting gaze  on  his  son.  "  Speak  out," 
said  he.  "  Tell  me  what  it  is  you 
mean." 

Isaac  did  so.  Relating  the  circum- 
stances of  the  loss  ;  with  the  confusion 
of  manner  he  had  observed  in  Mr. 
George  Godolphin,  on  the  visits  of 
Lord  Averil,  and  his  reluctance  to  re- 
ceive them.  One  little  matter  he  sup- 
pressed,— the  stolen  visit  of  George  to 
London,  and  deceit  to  Maria,  relative 
to  it.  Isaac  did  not  see  what  that 
could  have  had  to  do  with  the  loss  of 
the  deeds,  and  some  feeling  prompted 
him  that  it  was  not  a  pleasant  thing 
to  name  to  his  father.  Air.  Hastings 
did  not  speak  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  Isaac,  1  see  no  good  grounds  for 
your  doubts,"  he  said,  at  length.  "  The 
bank  is  too  flourishing  for  that.  Per- 
haps you  meant  only  as  to  George  ?"' 

"  I  can  scarcely  tell  whether  I  really 
meant  any  thing,"  replied  Isaac. 
"The  doubts  arose  to  me,  and  I 
thought  I  would  mention  them  to  you. 
I  dare  say  my  fancy  is  to  blame  :  it 
docs  run  riot  sometimes." 

A  silence  supervened.  Mr.  Hast- 
ings broke  it.  "  With  a  keen  man  of 
business  like  Thomas  Godolphin  at 
the  head  of  affairs,  George  could  not 
go  far  wrong,  I  should  presume.  I 
think  he  spends  enough  on  his  own 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


259 


score,  mark  you,  Isaac  ;  but  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  prosperity  of 
the  bank." 

"  Of  course  not,     Unless " 

"Unless  what?  Why  don't  you 
speak  out  ?" 

"  Because  I  am  not  sure  of  my  prem- 
ises, sir,"  frankly  answered  Isaac. 
"  Unless  he  were  to  have  got  himself 
irretrievably  embarrassed,  and  should 
be  using  the  bank's  funds,  I  believe  I 
was  about  to  say. " 

"  Pretty  blind  moles  some  of  you 
must  be,  in  that  case  !  Could  such  a 
thing  be  done  without  the  cognizance 
of  the  house  ? — of  Mr.  Hurde,  and  of 
Thomas  Godolphin  ?" 

"  Well — no — I  don't  much  think  it 
could,"  hesitated  Isaac,  who  was  not 
at  all  certain  upon  the  point.  "  At 
any  rate,  not  to  any  extent.  I  sup- 
pose one  of  my  old  crotchets — as 
Grace  used  to  call  them — has  taken 
possession  of  me,  rendering  me  ab- 
surdly fanciful.  I  dare  say  it  is  all 
right, — except  that  the  deeds  are  mis- 
laid." 

"  I  dare  say  it  is,"  acquiesced  the 
rector.  "  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  it 
otherwise, — for  many  reasons.  Grace 
is  here,  is  she  not?" 

"  Grace  is  hei-e,  and  Grace's  son- 
and-heir,  making  enough  noise  for  ten. 
I  can't  think  why  Grace " 

"What  are  you  taking  my  name  in 
vain  for  ?"  interrupted  Grace's  own 
voice.  She  had  come  up  to  them  car- 
rying the  very  son-and-heir  that  Isaac 
had  been  complaining  of, — a  young 
gentleman  with  a  bald  head,  just  be- 
ginning to  exercise  his  hands  in  dumb 
fights,  as  well  as  his  lungs.  "  Papa, 
mamma  says,  are  you  not  going  in  to 
tea  ?" 

Before  the  rector  could  answer,  or 
Isaac  extricate  his  hair  from  the  un- 
consciously mischievous  little  hands 
which  had  seized  upon  it,  by  Grace's 
connivance,  there  came  a  gay  party  of 
equestrians  round  the  corner  of  the 
road, — Charlotte  Pain,  with  the  two 
young  ladies,  her  guests  ;  Lady  Sarah 
and  Miss  Grame,  who  sometimes  hired 
horses  for  a  ride  ;  and  three  or  four 
gentlemen.     Amongst  the  latter  were 


George  Godolphin  and  Lord  Averil.  ' 
Lord  Averil  had  met  them  accident- 
ally and  joined  their  party.     He  was 
riding  by  the  side  of  Charlotte  Pain. 

"I  say,  Grace!"  hastily  exclaimed 
Isaac,  twitching  away  his  head,  "take 
that  baby  in,  out  of  sight.  Look 
there  !" 

"  Take  my  baby  in  !"  resentfully 
spoke  Grace.  "  What  for  ?  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  be  seen  holding  it.  Keep- 
ing only  two  servants,  I  must  turn 
nurse  sometimes, — and  people  know 
that  I  must.  I  am  not  situated  as 
Maria  is,  with  half  a  score  at  her  beck 
and  call." 

Isaac  did  not  prolong  the  discussion. 
He  thought,  if  he  owned  an  ugly  baby 
with  no  hair,  he  should  not  be  so  fond 
of  showing  it  off.  Grace  stood  her 
ground,  and  the  baby  stood  his,  and 
lifted  its  head  and  its  arms  by  way  of 
greeting.  Isaac  wondered  that  it  did 
not  lift  its  voice  as  well. 

The  party  exchanged  bows  as  they 
rode  past,  George  Godolphin — he 
was  riding  b}r  the  side  of  Sarah  Anne 
Grame — withdrew  his  horse  from  the 
throng  and  rode  up. 

"How  are  you,  Grace?  How  is 
the  baby  ?" 

"  Look  at  him,"  returned  Grace,  in 
answer,  holding  the  gentleman  higher. 

"  Shall  I  take  him  for  a  ride  ?"  asked 
George,  laughing. 

"  Not  if  you  paid  me  his  value  in 
gold,"  answered  Grace,  bluntly. 

George's  gay  blue  eyes  twinkled. 
"  What  may  that  value  be  ?  Your 
estimation  of  it,  Grace  ?" 

"  Xever  mind,"  said  Grace.  "  I  can 
tell  you  that  your  bank  would  not 
meet  it, — no,  not  if  all  its  coffers  were 
filled  to  the  brim." 

"I  see,"  cried  George:  "he  is  in- 
estimable. Do  not  set  your  heart  too 
entirely  upon  him,  Grace,"  he  contin- 
ued, his  voice  changing. 

"  Why  not  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Maria  had  to  lose  some  ;  equally 
dear." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Grace,  in  a 
softened  tone.  "How  is  Maria  to- 
day ?" 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you.    She  went 


260 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


to  Ashlydyat  this  afternoon,  and  I 
dare  say  has  remained  there.  Famous 
weather  for  the  hay,  is  it  not,  sir  ?" 
he  added  to  the  rector. 

"  Couldn't  be  better,"  replied  Mr. 
Hastings. 

George  rode  off  at  a  canter.  The 
baby  burst  into  a  ciy  ;  perhaps  that 
he  could  not  go  off  at  a  canter  too  ; 
and  Grace,  after  a  vain  attempt  to 
hush  him,  carried  him  into  the  house. 
The  rector  remained,  looking  over  the 
gate. 

"  Things  going  wrong  with  him  ! — 
No  !  He  could  not  be  so  easy  under 
it,"  was  his  mental  conclusion.  "  It  is 
all  right,  depend  upon  it,"  he  added 
aloud  to  his  son. 

"  I  think  it  must  be,  sir,"  was  the 
reply  of  Isaac  Hastings. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

A     NIGHTMARE     FOR     THE     RECTOR     OF 
ALL   SOULS'. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Hastings  had 
audibly  expressed  a  wish  never  again 
to  be  left  in  the  responsible  situation 
of  trustee,  and  the  Reverend  Mr.  Hast- 
ings echoed  it  a  second  time  as  he  as- 
cended a  gig  which  was  to  convey 
him  to  Binham.  A  vestry-meeting 
had  been  called  for  that  evening  at 
seven  o'clock,  but  something  arose 
during  the  day  connected  with  the 
trust,  and  at  four  Mr.  Hastings  set 
off  in  a  gig  to  see  Brierly,  the  late 
agent  to  the  Chisholm  property.  "I'll 
be  back  by  seven  if  I  can,  Smith,"  he 
observed  to  his  clerk,  —  if  not,  the 
meeting  must  commence  without  me." 

The  way  to  Binham  lay  through 
shady  lanes  and  unfrequented  roads, — 
unfrequented  as  compared  to  roads 
where  the  traffic  is  great.  It  was  a 
small  place  about  six  miles'  distance 
from  Prior's  Ash,  and  the  rector  en- 
joyed the  drive.  The  day  was  warm 
and  fine  as  the  previous  one  had  been, 
— when   you   saw    Maria    Godolphin 


walking  through  the  hayfield.  Shady 
trees  in  some  parts  met  overhead,  the 
limes  gave  forth  their  sweet  perfume, 
the  heavy  crops  of  grass  gladdened 
the  rector's  eye, — some  not  cut,  some 
in  process  of  being  converted  into  hay 
by  laborers,  who  looked  off  to  salute 
the  well-known  clergyman  as  he  drove 
past. 

"  I  might  have  brought  Rose,  after 
all,"  he  soliloquized.  "  She  would 
have  had  a  nice  drive, — only  she'd 
have  been  half  an  hour  getting 
ready." 

He  found  Mr.  Brierly  at  home,  and 
their  little  matter  of  business  was 
soon  concluded.  Mr.  Hastings  had 
other  places  to  call  at  in  the  town  : 
he  had  always  plenty  of  people  to  see 
when  he  went  to  Binham,  for  he 
knew  everybody  in  it. 

"  I  wish  you  would  take  some- 
thing," said  the  agent. 

"  I  can't  stav,"  replied  Mr.  Hast- 
ings "  I  shall  find  old  Mrs.  Chis- 
holm at  tea,  and  can  snatch  a  cup 
with  her,  standing.  That  won't  hin- 
der time.  You  have  not  heard  from 
Harknar  ?" 

"  No, — not   directly.     His   brother 

thinks  he  will  be  at  home  next  week." 

"  The  sooner  the  better.     I  want 

the  affair  settled,  and  the  money  placed 

out." 

He  held  out  his  hand  as  he  spoke. 
Mr.  Brierly,  ^vho,  in  days  long  gone 
past,  when  they  were  both  boys  to- 
gether, had  been  an  old  schoolfellow 
of  the  rector's,  put  his  own  into  it. 
But  he  did  not  withdraw  it :  he  ap- 
peared to  be  in  some  hesitation. 

"  Mr.  Hastings,  excuse  me,"  he  said, 
presently,  speaking  slowly.  "Have 
you  kept  the  money,  which  I  paid 
vou  over,  in  your  own  possession  ?" 

"  Of  course  not.  I  took  it  the  same 
night  to  the  bank." 

"Ay, — I  guessed  you  would.  Is  it 
safe  ?"  he  added,  lowering  his  voice. 
"  Safe!"  echoed  Mr.  Hastings. 
"  I'll  tell  you  why  I  speak.  Rutt 
the  lawyer,  over  at  your  place,  was 
here  this  afternoon,  and  in  the  course 
of  conversation   he   dropped   a   hint 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  I)  Y  A  T . 


261 


that  something  was  wrong  at  Godol- 
phins'.  It  was  not  known  yet,  lie 
said,  but  it  would  be." 

Mr.  Hastings  paused.  "  Did  he  state 
his  grounds  for  asserting  it  ?" 

"  No.  From  what  I  could  gather, 
it  appeared  that  he  spoke  from  some 
vague  rumor." 

"  I  think  I  can  explain  it,"  said 
Mr.  Hastings.  "A  deed  belonging 
to  one  of  their  clients  has  been  lost, — 
has  disappeared,  at  any  rate,  in  some 
unaccountable  maimer ;  and  this,  I 
expect,  must  have  given  rise  to  the 
rumor.  But  the  loss  of  twenty  such 
deeds,  all  to  be  made  good,  would 
not  shake  the  solvency  of  Grodolphin, 
Crosse,  and  Godolphin." 

"  That  must  be  it,  then !  What 
simpletons  people  are  ! — swallowing 
down  any  absurd  rumor  that  gets 
afloat, — converting  a  molehill  into  a 
mountain  !  I  thought  it  was  strange, 
for  a  stable  old  house  like  the  Codol- 
phins." 

"  Let  me  recommend  you,  Brierly, 
not  to  mention  it  further.  If  such  a 
report  got  about,  it  might  cause  a  run 
on  the  bank.  Not  but  what,  so  far 
as  I  believe,  the  bank  could  stand  any 
run  that  might  be  made  upon  it." 

"  I  should  not  have  mentioned  it  at 
all,  except  to  you,"  returned  Mr. 
Brierly.  "  And  only  to  you,  because 
I  expected  the  Chisholms'  money  was 
there.  Rutt  is  not  a  safe  man  to 
speak  after,  at  the  best  of  times.  I 
told  him  I  did  not  believe  him.  And 
I  did  not.  Still, — if  any  thing  were 
to  happen,  and  I  had  bottled  up  the 
rumor,  not  giving  you  a  hint  of  it,  I 
should  never  cease  to  blame  myself." 

"  That  is  the  origin  of  it,  you  may 
depend, — the  loss  of  the  deed," — ob- 
served the  rector.  "  I  know  the  clerks 
were  questioned  about  that  yesterday, 
and  some  of  them  must  have  got  talk- 
ing out-of-doors.    Good-day,  Brierly." 

Mr.  Hastings  paid  the  rest  of  his 
visits  and  drove  home.  In  spite  of 
himself,  he  could  not  keep  his  mind 
from  reverting  —  and  somewhat  un- 
pleasantly— to  what  he  had  heard. 
He  believed  the  bank  to  be  perfectly  I 


solvent, — to  be  more  than  solvent. 
Until  the  previous  evening,  when 
Isaac  had  made  that  communication 
to  him,  he  had  been  ready  to  answer 
for  its  flourishing  state  on  his  own 
responsibility,  if  required.  He  fully 
believed  the  rumor,  spoken  of  by  llutt 
the  lawyer,  to  arise  from  some  dis- 
torted hints  of  the  missing  deeds  which 
had  oozed  out,  and  to  have  no  other 
foundation  whatever :  and  yet,  he 
could  not  keep  his  mind  from  revert- 
ing to  it  uneasily. 

The  ting-tang  (it  deserved  no  bet- 
ter name,  and  Prior's  Ash  gave  it  no 
other)  of  All  Souls'  Church  was  send- 
ing forth  its  last  notes  as  the  rector 
drove  in.  Handing  over  the  horse 
and  gig  to  the  waiting-servant  of  the 
friend  from  whom  it  was  borrowed, — 
a  gig  always  at  the  disposal  of  the 
rector, — he  made  his  way  to  the  ves- 
try, and  had  the  pleasure  of  presiding 
at  a  stormy  meeting.  There  were 
divided  parties  in  the  parish  at  that 
time,  touching  a  rate  to  be  made,  or 
a  non-rate  ;  and  opposing  eloquence 
ran  high.  Personally,  the  rector  was 
not  an  interested  party;  but  he  had  a 
somewhat  difficult  course  to  steer  be- 
tween the  two  and  offend  neither.  It 
was  half-past  nine  when  the  meeting 
broke  up. 

"  Any  news  of  that  missing  deed, 
Isaac  ?"  he  took  an  opportunity  of 
asking  his  son. 

"I  think  not,"  replied  Isaac.  "We 
have  heard  nothing  about  it  to-day." 

"  I  suppose  things  have  gone  on, 
then,  as  usual ?" 

"  Quite  so.  We  shall  hear  no  more 
of  it,  I  dare  say,  in  the  bank.  If  it 
can't  be  found,  the  firm  will  have  to 
make  it  good,  and  there'll  be  an  end 
of  it," 

"  A  very  unsatisfactory  ending,  I 
should  think,  if  I  had  to  make  it 
good,"  observed  the  rector.  "  I  don't 
like  things  disappearing,  nobody  knows 
how  or  why." 

He  said  no  more.  He  gave  no 
hint  to  Isaac  of  the  hint  that  had 
been  whispered  to  him,  nor  ques- 
tioned him  upon  its  probable  founda- 


262 


THE       SHADOW       OF       ASHLYDYAT. 


tion.  It  was  the  best  proof  that  Mr. 
Hastings  assigned  to  it  no  foundation. 
In  his  sober  reason  he  did  not. 

But  things — troubles,  cares,  annoy- 
ances wear  different  aspects  in  the 
day  and  in  the  night.  More  than  all, 
suspense  wears  a  different  one.  An 
undefined  dread,  whatever  may  be  its 
nature,  can  be  drowned  by  the  daily 
bustle,  —  business,  pleasure,  occupa- 
tions. These  fill  up  the  mind,  and 
the  bugbear  is  lost  sight  of.  But  at 
night,  when  the  head  lies  upon  the 
sleepless  pillow,  and  there's  nothing 
to  distract  the  thoughts, — when  all 
around  is  silent  darkness, — then,  if 
there  is  an  inner,  secret  dread,  it 
shines  out  in  colors  unnaturally  vivid, 
and  presents  itself  in  guise  worse  than 
the  reality. 

Mr.  Hastings  was  not  an  imagina- 
tive man.  Quite  the  contrary.  He 
was  more  given  to  deal  with  things, 
whether  pleasant  or  painful,  in  a  prac- 
tical maimer  by  daylight,  than  to  rack 
his  brains  with  them  at  night.  There- 
fore, the  way  in  which  the  new  doubt 
troubled  him,  when  he  lay  in  bed  that 
night,  was  something  wonderful.  Had 
he  been  a  fanciful  woman,  he  could 
not  have  experienced  worse  treatment 
from  his  imagination.  It  was  running 
riot  within  him.  Could  it  lie  that  the 
money  intrusted  to  him  was  gone  ? — 
lost  ? — Had  he  put  it  into  that  bank 
for  safety,  only  to  find  that  the  bank 
would  never  refund  it  again  ?  How 
was  he  to  make  it  good  ?  He  could 
not  make  it  good,  and  the  little  Chis- 
holms,  the  children  of  his  dead  friend, 
must  be  beggars  !  He  thought  not 
of  his  own  money,  lodged  in  the  care 
of  Godolphin,  Crosse,  and  Godolphin  ; 
that  seemed  as  nothing  in  compari- 
son with  this.  Mr.  Hastings  had  had 
rather  an  expensive  family  ;  he  had 
given  money  away  in  his  parish, — a 
conscientious  clergyman  is  obliged  to 
give,  more  or  less, — and  his  savings, 
all  told,  did  not  amount  to  more  than 
two  thousand  pounds.  It  was  not  of 
that,  equally  at  stake,  that  he  thought, 
but  of  this  other  and  larger  sum,  of 
which  he  was  but  the  steward. 

Try  as  he  would,  he  could  not  get 


to  sleep ;  try  as  he  would,  he  could 
not  put  these  half-insane  visions  from 
him.  His  mind  became  wrought  to 
the  very  highest  pitch;  he  could  have 
found  in  his  heart  to  get  up,  make 
his  way  to  the  bank,  knock  up  George 
Godolphin,  and  demand  his  money 
back  again.  He  registered  a  silent 
resolve  that  he  would  go  there  with 
the  first  glimmer  of  morning  light. 
Yesterday  he  was  a  free  man,  a  man 
at  his  ease,  it  may  be  said  a  pros- 
perous man  :  to-morrow,  should  that 
money  be  beyond  his  reach,  he  would 
be  ruined  forever, — broken  down  un- 
der his  weight  of  care.  What  if  he 
were  too  late  !  If  he  went  to  the 
bank,  and  was  told,  "  The  bank  is  in 
embarrassment,  and  we  cannot  re- 
fund ?"  Oh,  how  supinely  careless 
had  he  been,  to  suffer  a  whole  day 
to  slip  on  since  Isaac's  warning ! 
Any  hour  in  that  past  day  he  might 
have  gone  and  withdrawn  the  money, 
— might  have  had  it  securely  now 
in  the  chest  by  his  bedside.  When 
another  dawned,  it  might  be  too  late. 

Torments  such  as  these, — and  they 
were  all  the  more  intolerable  from 
the  fact  of  his  being  unused  to  them, — 
haunted  him  through  the  night.  They 
have  haunted  us ;  they,  or  similar 
ones.  Towards  morning,  he  dropped 
into  a  heavy  sleep,  awaking  later  than 
his  customary  hour.  Those  dark  vis- 
ions were  gone  then  ;  but  enough  of 
their  effect  remained  to  keep  the  rector 
to  his  resolve  of  drawing  out  the 
money.  "  I'll  go  the  first  thing  after 
breakfast,"  said  he,  as  he  dressed  him- 
self. 

But,  when  breakfast  was  over,  and 
the  business  of  the  day  fairly  entered 
upon,  Mr.  Hastings  felt  half  ashamed 
of  his  resolution.  The  visions  of  the 
night  appeared  to  him  to  be  simply 
fantastic  follies,  diseased  creations  of 
the  brain :  should  there  be  really  no 
cause  for  his  withdrawal  of  the  money, 
how  worse  than  foolish  he  should 
look  ! — nay,  how  unjustifiable  would 
such  a  procedure  be  ! 

What  ought  he  to  do  ?  He  leaned 
over  the  gate  while  he  took  counsel 
with  himself.     He  had  put  on  his  hat 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


263 


and  taken  his  stick  in  his  hand,  and 
gone  forth  ?  and  there  he  stopped, 
hesitating.  A  strange  frame  of  mind 
for  Mr.  Hastings,  who  was  not  a 
vacillating  nature.  Suddenly  he  flung 
the  gate  open  and  went  through  with 
a  decisive  step  ;  his  determination 
was  taken.  He  would  steer  a  mid- 
way course,  present  himself  to  his 
son-in-law,  George  Godolphin,  and  ask 
him  frankly,  as  a  friend  and  relative, 
whether  the  money  was  safe. 

Many  a  one  would  have  decided 
that  it  was  a  safe  and  proper  course  to 
pursue.  Mr.  Hastings  deemed  it  to 
be  such,  and  he  proceeded  to  the 
bank.  The  fresh  air,  the  bright  sun, 
the  pleasant  bustle  of  daily  life,  had 
well-nigh  dissipated  any  remaining 
fears  before  he  got  there. 

"  Can  I  see  Mr.  George  Godolphin?" 
he  inquired. 

"  Mr.  George  is  engaged  at  present, 
sir,"  replied  the  clerk  to  whom  he  had 
addressed  himself.  "He  will  be  at 
liberty  soon.  Would  you  like  to  take 
a  seat  ?" 

Mr.  Hastings  sat  down  on  the  chair 
handed  him,  and  waited  ;  watching  at 
his  leisure  the  business  of  the  bank. 
Several  people  were  there.  Some 
were  paving  money  in,  some  drawing 
it  out.  There  appeared  to  be  no  hesi- 
tation, either  in  paying  or  receiving  ; 
all  seemed  as  usual.  One  man  brought 
a  cheque  for  nine  hundred  and  odd 
pounds,  and  it  was  counted  out  to  him. 
"  I  feel  sure  it  is  all  right,"  was  the 
conclusion  come  to  by  Sir.  Hastings. 

About  ten  minutes  and  George 
Godolphin  came  forward.  "  Ah  !  is  it 
you  ?"  said  he,  with  his  sunny  smile. 
"  You  are  here  early  this  morning." 

"  I  want  to  say  just  a  word  to  you 
in  private,  Mr.  George." 

George  led  the  way  to  his  room, 
talking  gayly.  He  pushed  a  chair  to 
Mr.  Hastings,  and  took  his  own. 
Xever  a  face  more  free  from  care  than 
his  ;  never  a  less  troubled  eye.  He 
asked  after  Mrs.  Hastings,  he  asked 
after  Reginald,  who  was  daily  expected 
home  from  a  voyage, — whether  he 
had  arrived.  "  Maria  dreamt  last 
night  that  he  had  come  home,"  said 


he,  laughing,  "  and  told  her  he  was 
never  going  to  sea  again." 

Mr.  Hastings  remembered  his 
dreams, — if  dreams  they  could  be 
called.  He  was  beginning  to  think 
that  he  must  have  had  the  night- 
mare. 

"  Mr.  George,  I  have  come  to  you 
upon  a  strange  errand,"  he  began. 
"  Will  you  for  a  few  moments  regard 
me  as  a  confidential  friend,  and  treat 
me  as  such  ?" 

"I  hope  it  is  what  I  always  do, 
sir,"  was  the  reply  of  George  Godol- 
phin. 

"Ay ;  but  I  want  a  proof  of  your 
friendship  this  morning.  But  for  my 
being  connected  with  you  by  close 
ties,  I  should  not  have  so  come.  Tell 
me,  honestly  and  confidentially,  as  be- 
tween man  and  man, — Is  that  trust- 
money  safe  ?" 

George  looked  at  Mr.  Hastings,  his 

countenance    slightly  changing.     Mr. 

Hastings  thought  he  was  vexed. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  said. 

"  I   have  heard    a   rumor — I    have 

heard,  in  fact,  two  rumors, — that 

The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is  this," 
more  rapidly  continued  Mr.  Hastings, 
"  I  have  heard  that  there's  something 
doubtful  arising  with  the  bank." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?" 
uttered  George  Godolphin. 

"  Is  there  any  thing  the  matter  ?  Or 
is  the  bank  as  solvent  as  it  ought  to 
be?" 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  it  other- 
wise," replied  George.  "I  don't  un- 
derstand you.  What  have  you  heard  ?" 
"Just  what  I  tell  you.  A  friend 
spoke  to  me  in  private  yesterdav, 
when  I  was  at  Binham,  saying  that 
he  had  heard  a  suspicion  of  something 
being  wrong  with  the  bank  here.  You 
will  not  be  surprised,  Mr.  George, 
that  I  thought  of  the  nine  thousand 
pounds  I  had  just  paid  in." 

"  Who  said  it  ?"  asked  George.  "I'll 
prosecute  him  if  I  can  find  out." 

"  I  dare  say  you  would.  But  I  have 
not  come  here  to  make  mischief.  I 
stopped  his  repeating  it,  and  I,  you 
know,  am  safe,  so  there's  no  harm 
done.    I  have  passed  an  uneasy  night, 


264 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


and  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  tell  me 
the  truth  in  all  good  faith." 

"The  bank  is  all  right,"  said  George. 
"  I  cannot  imagine  how  such  a  report 
could  by  any  possibility  have  arisen," 
lie  continued,  quitting  the  one  point 
for  the  other.  "  There  is  no  foundation 
for  it." 

George  Godolphin  spoke  in  all  good 
faith  when  he  said  he  could  not  tell 
how  the  report  could  have  arisen.  He 
really  could  not.  Nothing  had  trans- 
pired at  Prior's  Ash  to  give  rise  to 
it.  Possibly  he  deemed,  in  his  san- 
guine temperament,  that  he  spoke  in 
equally  good  faith,  when  assuring  Mr. 
Hastings  that  the  bank  was  all  right : 
he  may  have  believed  that  it  would  so 
continue. 

"  The  money  is  safe,  then  ?" 

"Perfectly  safe." 

"Otherwise,  you  must  let  me  have 
it  out  now.  Were  it  to  be  lost,  it 
would  be  ruin  to  me,  ruin  to  the  little 
Chisholms." 

"  But  it  is  safe,"  returned  George, 
all  the  more  emphatically,  because 
that  it  would  have  been  remarkably 
inconvenient,  for  special  reasons,  to 
refund  it  then  to  Mr.  Hastings.  I  re- 
peat, that  he  may  have  thought  it  was 
safe  :  safe  in  so  far  as  that  the  bank 
would  get  along  somehow,  and  could 
repay  it  sometime.  Meanwhile,  the 
use  of  it  was  convenient, — how  con- 
venient none  knew,  save  George. 

"A  packet  of  deeds  has  been  mis- 
laid ;  or  is  missing  in  some  way,"  re- 
sumed George.  "  They  belong  to 
Lord  Averil.  It  must  be  some  ver- 
sion of  that  which  has  got  abroad, — 
if  anything  has  got  abroad." 

"Ay,"  nodded  Mr.  Hastings.  The 
opinion  coincided  precisely  with  what 
he  had  expressed  to  the  agent. 

"I  know  of  nothing  else  wrong 
with  the  bank,"  spoke  George.  "  Some 
wiseacre  has  got  hold  of  the  wrong 
pig  by  the  tail.  Were  you  to  ask  my 
brother,  I  am  sure  he  would  tell  you 
that  business  was  never  more  flourish- 
ing. I  wish  to  goodness  people  could 
be  compelled  to  concern  themselves 
with  their  own  affairs  instead  of  in- 
venting falsehoods  of  their  friends  !" 


Mr.  Hastings  rose.  "  Your  assur- 
ance is  sufficient,  Mr.  George  ;  I  do 
not  require  your  brother's  word  to 
confirm  it.  I  have  asked  it  of  you, 
in  all  dependence,  Maria  being  the 
link  between  us." 

"To  be  sure,"  replied  George  ;  and 
he  shook  Mr.  Hastings's  hand  as  he 
went  out. 

George  remained  alone,  biting  the 
end  of  his  quill-pen.  To  hear  that 
an^y  such  rumor  was  abroad  vexed 
and  annoyed  him  beyond  measure. 
He  only  hoped  that  it  would  not 
spread.  Some  wiseacre — as  he  called 
it — must  have  picked  up  an  inkling 
about  the  deed,  and  converted  it  into 
a  slur  upon  the  bank's  solvency.  "  I 
wish  I  could  hang  the  fools  !"  mut- 
tered George. 

His  wish  was  interrupted.  Some- 
body came  in  and  said  that  Mr.  Bar- 
naby desired  to  see  him. 

"Let  him  come  in,"  said  George. 

Mr.  Barnaby  came  in.  A  simple- 
looking  man  of  quiet  manners,  a  corn 
and  barley-dealer,  who  kept  an  ac- 
count at  the  bank.  He  had  a  canvas 
bag  in  his  hand.  George  asked  him 
to  a  seat. 

"  I  was  going  to  pay  in  two  thou- 
sand pounds,  sir,"  said  he,  slightly 
lifting  the  bag  to  indicate  that  the 
money  was  there.  "But  I'd  like,  first 
of  all,  to  be  assured  that  it's  all  right." 

George  sat  and  stared  at  him.  Was 
Prior's  Ash  all  going  mad  together  ? 
George  honestly  believed  that  nothing 
yet  had  transpired,  or  could  have 
transpired,  to  set  these  doubts  afloat. 
"  Really,  Mr.  Barnaby,  1  do  not  un- 
derstand you,"  he  said,  with  some 
hauteur :  just  like  he  had  answered 
Mr.  Hastings. 

"  I  called  in  at  Butt's,  sir,  as  I 
came  along,  to  know  what  had  been 
done  in  that  business  where  I  was 
chiseled  out  of  that  load  of  barley,  and 
I  happened  to  mention  that  I  was 
coming  on  here  to  pay  in  two  thou- 
sand pounds.  '  Take  care  that  it's 
all  right,'  said  Butt.  'I  heard  the 
bank  talked  about  yesterday.'  Is  it 
all  right,  sir  ?" 

"  It  is  as  right  as  the  Bank  of  En£- 


THE      S  n  A  D  0  W      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


265 


land,"  impulsively  answered  George. 
"  Rutt  shall  be  brought  to  account  for 
this." 

"  Well,  T  thought  it  was  odd  if 
there  was  any  thing  up.  Then  I  may 
leave  it  with  safety  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  may,"  replied  George. ' 
"  Have  you  uot  always  found  it  safe 
hitherto  ?" 

"  That's  just  it :  I  couldn't  fancy 
that  any  thing  wrong  had  come  to  it 
all  on  a  sudden.  I'll  go  and  pay  it 
in  then,  sir.  It  won't  be  for  long, 
though.  I  shall  be  wanting  it  out,  I 
expect,  by  the  end  of  next  week." 

"  Whenever  you  please,  Mr.  Barna- 
by,"  replied  George. 

The  corn-dealer  retired  to  leave  his 
money,  and  George  Godolphin  sat  on 
alone,  biting  his  pen  as  before. 
Where  could  these  pernicious  rumors 
have  had  their  rise  ?  Harmless 
enough  they  might  have  fallen,  had 
nothing  been  rotten  at  the  core  of 
affairs  :  George  alone  knew  how  aw- 
fully pernicious  they  might  prove  now, 
did  they  get  wind. 


CHAPTER  XLL 

MR.  LAYTON  "LOOKED  UP." 

If  this  mysterious  loss  of  the 
packet  of  deeds  disturbed  Thomas 
Godolphin,  it  was  also  disturbing,  in 
no  light  degree,  the  faithful  old  clerk, 
Mr.  Hurde.  IVever,  since  he  had 
entered  the  house  of  Godolphin, 
Crosse,  and  Godolphin — so  many 
years  ago  now,  that  he  had  almost  lost 
count  of  them — had  any  similar  un- 
satisfactory incident  occurred.  Mr. 
Hurde  thought  and  thought  and 
thought  it  over :  he  turned  it  about 
in  his  mind,  he  looked  at  it  in  all  its 
bearings.  He  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  must  be  one  of  two  things  : 
either  that  George  Godolphin  had  in- 
advertently misplaced  it,  or  that  it 
had  been  stolen  out  and  out.  George 
Godolphin  said  that  he  had  not  mis- 
placed it ;    indeed,    George    did   not 


acknowledge  to  any  recollection  of 
having  visited  at  all  the  box  of  Lord 
Averil,  except  when  he  went  to  make 
the  search  :  and  Mr.  Godolphin  had 
now  looked  in  every  box  that  the 
safe  contained,  and  could  not  find 
it.  Therefore,  after  much  vacillating 
between  opinions,  the  clerk  came  to 
the  final  conclusion  that  the  deeds 
had  been  taken. 

"  Who  could  have  done  it  ?"  he 
asked  himself  over  and  over  again. 
Somebody  about  them,  doubtless. 
He  believed  all  the  clerks  were  safe  ; 
that  is,  honest ;  save  Layton.  Until 
this  happened,  he  would  have  said 
Layton  was  safe  ;  and  it  was  only  in 
the  utter  absence  of  any  other  quarter 
for  suspicion  that  he  cast  a  doubt  on 
Layton.  Of  the  clerks,  he  felt  least 
sure  of  Layton  :  but  that  was  the 
utmost  that  could  be  said  :  he  would 
not  have  thought  to  doubt  the  man, 
but  that  he  was  seeking  for  somebody 
to  lay  it  on.  The  deeds  could  not 
have  gone  without  hands,  and  Mr. 
Hurde,  in  his  perplexity,  could  only 
think  that  Layton's  hands  were  less 
unlikely  hands  than  others. 

On  the  previous  evening,  he  had 
gone  home  thinking  of  it.  And  there 
he  pondered  the  affair  over,  while  he 
digested  his  dry  toast  and  his  milkless 
tea.  He  was  a  man  of  very  spare 
habits ;  partly  that  his  health  com- 
pelled him  to  be  so  ;  partly  from  a 
parsimonious  nature.  While  seated 
at  it,  composedly  enjoying  the  un- 
generous fare  near  the  open  window, 
who  should  he  see  go  by,  but  the 
very  man  on  whom  his  thoughts  were 
fixed, — Layton.  This  Layton  was  a 
young,  good-looking  man,  an  inveter- 
ate dandy,  with  curls  and  a  mous- 
tache. That  moustache,  sober,  clean- 
shaved  Mr.  Hurde  had  always  looked 
askance  upon.  That  Layton  had 
been  given  to  spend  more  than  was 
expedient,  Prior's  Ash  knew  :  but  for 
that  fact,  he  would  not  now  have 
been  a  banker's  clerk.  His  family 
were  respectable — wealthy  in  a  mod- 
erate way ;  but  he  had  run  through 
too  much  of  their  money  and  tired 
them  out.     For  the  last  two  or  three 


266 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLIDYAT. 


years  he  had  settled  down  to  sobriety. 
Thomas  Godolphin  had  admitted  him 
to  a  clerkship  in  his  house,  and  Lay- 
ton  had  married,  and  appeared  con- 
tent to  live  in  a  small  way. 

A  small  way  for  him  ;  as  compared 
to  what  he  had  been  accustomed  to  ; 
too  large  a  way  in  the  opinion  of  Mr. 
Hurde.  Mrs.  Layton  had  a  piano, 
and  played  and  sang  very  much,  for 
the  benefit  of  the  passers-by  ;  and 
Layton  hired  gigs  on  a  Sunday  and 
drove  her  out.  Great  food  for  Mr. 
Hurde's  censure,  and  he  was  thinking 
of  all  this  when  Layton  passed. 
Starting  up  with  a  bound  to  look  after 
him,  he  nearly  upset  his  teaboard. 

He,  Layton,  was  walking  arm-in- 
arm with  a  Mr.  Jolly, — a  great  sport- 
ing character.  Mr.  Hurde  gave  a 
grunt  of  dissatisfaction.  "  Much  good 
it  will  bring  him  if  he  gets  intimate 
with  him  /" 

In  the  dark  of  the  evening,  when  it 
had  grown  quite  late,  and  Mr.  Hurde 
had  taken  his  frugal  supper,  he  went 
out,  and  bent  his  steps  towards  the 
residence  of  Layton.  In  his  present 
uncertain  frame  of  mind,  touching 
Layton,  it  seemed  expedient  to  Mr. 
Hurde  to  take  a  walk  past  his  place 
of  abode,  lest  haply  he  might  come 
upon  something  or  other  confirmatory 
of  his  suspicions. 

And  he  did.  At  least,  it  appeared 
to  Hurde  that  he  did.  Never  a  shade 
of  doubt  rested  upon  him  that  night 
that  the  thief  was  Ned  Layton. 

On  the  high  road,  going  to  Ashly- 
dyat, — not  the  obscure  and  less  fre- 
quented way  down  Crosse  Street,  but 
the  open  turnpike  road  taken  by  car- 
riages,— there  had  been  a  good  deal  of 
building  of  late  years.  Houses  and 
terraces  had  grown  up,  almost  as  by 
magic,  not  only  along  the  line  of  road, 
but  branching  off  on  either  side  of  it. 
Down  one  of  these  turnings,  a  row  of 
dwellings  of  that  class  called  in  the 
local  phraseology  "  genteel,"  had  been 
erected  by  a  fancy  architect.  He  had 
certainly  not  displayed  any  great 
amount  of  judicious  skill.  They  con- 
tained eight  rooms,  bad  glittering- 
white  fronts  and  grass-green  porticos 


of  trellis-work.  White  houses  are 
very  nice,  and  there's  nothing  objec- 
tionable in  green  porticos  :  but  they 
need  not  be  made  to  abut  right  upon 
the  public  pathway.  Walking  in  front 
of  the  terrace,  the  porticos  looked  like 
so  many  green  watch-boxes,  and  the 
bow-windows  appeared  to  be  con- 
stituted on  purpose  that  you  should 
see  what  was  inside  them.  In  the 
last  house  of  this  row  dwelt  the  clerk, 
Layton.  He  and  his  wife  had  lodg- 
ings in  it :  that  bow-windowed  parlor 
and  the  bedroom  over  it. 

Mr.  Hurde  strolled  past,  in  the  de- 
liberate manner  that  he  might  have 
done  had  he  been  out  for  only  an 
evening  airing,  and  he  obtained  full 
view  of  the  interior  of  the  sitting-room. 
He  obtained  the  pleasure  of  a  very 
full  view  indeed.  In  fact,  there  ap- 
peared to  be  so  much  to  look  at,  that 
his  vision  at  first  could  but  take  it  in 
confusedly. 

The  Laytons  had  got  a  party.  Two 
or  three  ladies,  and  two  or  three  gen- 
tlemen. A  supper-tray  was  at  one 
end  of  the  table,  and  at  this  end,  next 
the  window,  were  two  decanters  of 
wine,  some  fruit  and  biscuits.  There 
was  a  great  deal  of  talking  and  laugh- 
ing and  there  was  plenty  of  light. 
Four  candles  Mr.  Hurde  counted  as 
he  stood  there  :  two  on  the  table,  two 
on  the  mantelpiece.  Four  candles  ! 
and  they  were  not  staid  respectable 
"moulds,"  like  he  burnt,  but  those 
flaring  dropping  composites,  tenpence 
a  pound,  if  they  were  a  penny  !  He, 
the  old  clerk,  stood  there,  unseen  and 
unsuspected,  and  took  it  all  in.  The 
display  of  glass  looked  something  pro- 
fuse, and  he  nearly  gave  vent  to  a 
groan  when  he  caught  sight  of  the 
silver  forks :  silver  or  imitation,  he 
did  not  know  which,  but  it  appeared 
all  one  to  Mr.  Hurde.  He  had  never 
overstepped  the  respectable  customs 
of  his  forefathers,. — had  never  ad- 
vanced beyond  the  good  old-fashioned 
two-pronged  steel  fork.  They  were 
sitting  with  the  window  open ;  no 
houses  were  as  yet  built  opposite,  and 
the  road  was  not  invaded,  save  by 
persons  coming  to  these  houses,  from 


THE     SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


267 


one  hour's  end  to  another.  Mr.  Hurcle 
could  stand  there,  and  enjoy  the  sight 
at  leisure.  If  ever  a  man  felt  con- 
viction rush  to  his  heart,  he  did  then. 
Wine,  and  composite  candles,  and  sil- 
ver forks,  and  supper,  and  visitors  ! — 
who  but  Layton  could  have  taken  the 
deed  ? 

He  stood  thei'e  a  little  too  long. 
Falling  into  a  reverie,  he  did  not  no- 
tice a  movement  within,  and  suffered 
himself  to  be  all  but  dropped  upon. 
He  could  have  made  an  excuse,  it  is 
true  ;  for  Layton  was  a  civil  fellow, 
and  had  several  times  asked  him  to 
go  up  there  ;  but  he  preferred  not  to 
make  it,  and  not  to  be  seen.  The 
street-door  opened,  and  Mr.  Hurde 
had  just  time  to  dart  past  the  portico 
and  take  shelter  behind  it,  round  the 
corner.  From  his  position  he  was 
within  hearing  of  any  thing  that  might 
be  said. 

The  sporting  character  with  whom 
he  had  seen  Layton  walking  early  in 
the  evening,  and  who  made  one  of  the 
guests,  had  come  forth  to  depart. 
Layton  had  attended  him  to  the  door  ; 
and  they  stood  inside  the  portico, 
talking.  In  Mr.  Hurde's  fluster,  he 
did  not  at  first  catch  the  sense  of  the 
words  ;  but  he  soon  found  it  related  to 
horse-racing. 

"  You  back  Cannonbar,"  said  the 
sporting  man.  "You  can't  be  far  out 
then.  He's  a  first-rate  horse ;  he'll 
beat  the  whole  field  into  next  week. 
You  were  in  luck  to  draw  him." 

"  I  have  backed  him,"  replied  Lay- 
ton. 

"  Back  him  again  :  he's  a  little  gold 
mine.  I'd  spend  a  fifty-pound  note 
on  him,  I  would." 

Layton  answered  by  a  laugh.  They 
shook  hands,  and  the  sporting  friend, 
who  appeared  to  be  in  a  hurry,  set  off 
with  a  run  in  the  direction  of  Prior's 
Ash.  Mr.  Layton  went  in  again,  and 
shut  the  door. 

Then  Mr.  Hurde  came  out  of  his 
corner.  All  his  suspicions  strength- 
ened. Strengthened  ?  nay  ;  changed 
into  certainties.  Plate,  glass,  com- 
posites, wines,  supper,  and  friends  at 
it,   had   been   doubtful   enough ;    but 


they  were  as  trifles  compared  to  this 
new  danger, — this  betting  on  the  turf. 
Had  he  seen  Layton  take  Lord  A  vcril's 
deeds  with  his  own  eyes,  he  could  not 
have  been  more  certain  of  his  guilt 
than  he  felt  now. 

Enjoying  another  quiet  survey  of 
the  room,  during  which  he  had  the 
gratification  of  hearing  Mrs.  Layton, 
who  had  now  seated  herself  at  the 
piano,  plunge  into  a  song,  which  be- 
gan something  about  a  "  bird  on  the 
wing,"  the  old  clerk,  grievously  dis- 
comfited, retraced  his  steps  past  the 
terrace,  picked  his  way  over  some 
clay  and  loose  land  in  front  of  another 
terrace  in  process  of  erection,  and 
turned  into  the  high  road,  leading  to 
Prior's  Ash.  He  was  going  along 
lost  in  thought,  when  he  nearly  ran 
against  a  gentleman  turning  an  angle 
of  the  road.     It  was  Mr.  Godolphin. 

"  Oh, — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I 
did  not  look  where  I  was  going." 

"Enjoying  an  evening's  stroll, 
Hurde  ?"  said  Mr.  Godolphin,  who 
had  been  spending  an  hour  with  Lord 
Averil.  "  It  is  a  beautiful  night:  so 
serene  and  still." 

"  No,  sir,  I  can't  say  that  I  am  en- 
joying it,"  was  Mr.  Hurde's  reply. 
"  My  mind  was  not  at  ease  as  to  Lay- 
ton.  I  could  not  help  associating  him 
with  the  loss  of  the  deeds,  and  I  came 
out,  thinking  I'd  look  about  a  bit. 
It  must  have  been  instinct  sent  me, 
for  1  have  had  my  suspicions  con- 
firmed." 

"  Confirmed  in  what  way  ?"  asked 
Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  That  Layton  has  had  the  deeds. 
It  could  have  been  no  other." 

Thomas  Godolphin  listened  in  sur- 
prise, not  to  say  incredulity.  "How 
have  you  had  them  confirmed  ?"  he 
inquired,  after  a  pause. 

So  then  the  clerk  enlarged  upon 
what  he  had  seen.  "It  could  not  all 
come  out  of  his  salary,  Mr.  Godolphin. 
It  does  not  stand  to  reason  that  it 
could." 

"As  a  daily  extravagance,  of  course 
it  could  not,  Hurde,"  was  the  reply. 
"  But  it  may  be  but  a  chance  entertain- 
ment ?" 


268 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT. 


Mr.  Hurde  slipped  the  question  : 
possibly  he  felt  that  he  could  not 
debate  it.  "And  the  betting  ? — the 
risking  money  upon  race-horses,  sir?" 

"Ah!  I  like  that  less,"  readily 
acknowledged  Thomas  Godolphin. 
"  Man y  a  clerk  of  far  higher  pecuniary 
position  than  Layton  has  been  ruined 
by  it." 

"And  sent  across  the  herring-pond 
to  expiate  his  folly,"  returned  Mr. 
Hurde,  who*m  the  mention  of  "  back- 
ing" and  other  such  incentive  tempta- 
tions was  wont  to  exasperate  in  no 
measured  degree.  "  I  am  afraid  it 
looks  pretty  plain,  sir." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin,  musingly.  "  I  cannot  think 
Layton  has  become  a  rogue.  I  see 
nothing  inconsistent, — with  all  due 
respect  to  your  opinion,  Hurde, — I  see 
nothing  inconsistent  in  his  entertain- 
ing a  few  friends  occasionally.  But 
—without  any  reference  to  our  loss 
. — if  he  is  turning,  or  has  turned  a 
betting-man,  it  must  be  looked  after. 
We  will  have  none  such  in  the 
bank." 

"  No,  sir.  It  would  not  do  at  any 
price,"  acquiesced  Mr.  Hurde.  "Are 
you  feeling  pretty  well,  sir,  this  even- 
ing ?"  he  inquired,  as  Mr.  Godolphin 
was  preparing  to  continue  his  road. 

"  Quite  well.  I  have  not  been  so 
well  a  long  time,  as  I  have  been  the 
last  few  days.      Good-night,  Hurde." 

It  seemed  that  Mr.  Hurde  was  fated 
that  night  to  come  into  contact  with 
his  principals.  Who  should  overtake 
him,  just  as  he  had  come  to  the  spot 
where  the  houses  were  thick,  but  Mr. 
George.  Godolphin.  George  slackened 
his  steps, — he  had  been  walking  along 
at  a  striding  pace, — and  kept  by  his 
side.  He  began  speaking  of  the  hay 
and  other  indifferent  topics  :  but  Mr. 
Hurde's  mind  was  not  attuned  to  such, 
that  night. 

"  I  think  I  have  solved  the  mystery, 
Mr.  George,"  began  he. 

"  What  mystery  ?"  asked  George. 

"  The  stealing  of  Lord  Averil's 
bonds.     I  know  who  took  them." 

George   turned   his    head    sharply 


round  and  looked  at  him.  "What 
nonsense  are  you  saying  now,  Hurde  ?" 

"  I  wish  it  was  nonsense,  sir,"  was 
the  reply  of  Mr.  Hurde.  "  I  am  as 
sure  that  I  know  how  it  was  those 
bonds  went,  aftd  who  took  them,  as 
that  I  am  here." 

"And  whom  do  you  accuse  ?"  asked 
George,  after  a  pause,  speaking  some- 
what sarcastically. 

"  Layton." 

"  Layton  ?"  shouted  George,  stop- 
ping still  in  his  astonishment.  "  What 
Layton  ?" 

"  What  Layton,  sir  ?  Why,  our 
clerk,  Layton.  I  ought  to  have  held 
my  doubts  of  him  before  ;  but  I  sup- 
pose I  had  got  dust  in  my  eyes.  There 
are  he  and  his  wife  entertaining  the 
world  ;  their  room  crowded  ;  half  a 
score  people,  pretty  nigh,  in  it,  and 
she,  Layton's  wife,  is  sitting  down  to 
the  piano  with  pink  bows  in  her  head." 

"  What  if  she  is  ?"  asked  George. 

"  You  should  see  the  supper-table, 
Mr.  George,"  continued  Hurde,  too 
much  annoyed  with  his  own  view  of 
things  to  answer  superfluous  questions. 
"I  can't  tell  what  they  have  not  got 
upon  it :  silver,  and  glass,  and  de- 
canters of  wine.  That's  not  got  out 
of  his  salary.  And  Layton  is  taking 
to  betting." 

"  But  what  about  the  bonds  ?"  im- 
patiently questioned  George. 

"  Why — are  not  these  so  many 
proofs  that  Layton  must  have  taken 
the  bonds  and  made  money  of  them, 
sir  ?  Where  else  could  he  get  the 
means  from  ?  I  have  imparted  my 
suspicions  to  Mr.  Godolphin,  and  I 
expect  he  will  follow  them  up,  and 
have  it  fully  investigated." 

"  Then  you  are  a  fool  for  your  pains, 
Hurde  !"  retorted    George,  in    anger. 

"  Layton  no  more  took 1  dare  say 

Layton  no  more  took  those  bonds  than 
you  did.  You'll  get  into  trouble,  if 
you  don't  mind." 

"What,  sir  ?"  uttered  Hurde,  aghast. 

"  That,"  curtly  answered  George, 
"  if  you  '  follow  up'  any  chimera  that 
your  brain  chooses  to  raise,  you  must 
expect  to  get  paid  out  for  it.     Let 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


269 


Layton  alone.  It  will  be  time  enough 
to  look  him  up  when  suspicious  cir- 
cumstances arise  to  implicate  him. 
The  bonds  are  gone  :  but  we  shall  not 
get  them  back  again  by  making  a  stir 
in  wrong  quarters.  The  better  plan 
will  be  to  keep  quiet  over  it  for  a 
while." 

He  resumed  his  quick  pace  and 
strode  along,  calling  back  a  good-night 
to  Mr.  Hurde.  The  latter  gazed  after 
him  in  undisguised  astonishment. 

"  Make  no  stir  !  let  the  thing  go  on 
quietly  !"  he  articulated  to  himself. 
"  Who'd  say  such  a  thing  but  easy 
George  Godolphin  ?  Not  look  up 
Layton  ?  It's  well  for  you,  Mr. 
George,  that  you  have  got  men  of 
business  about  you  !  He'd  let  himself 
be  robbed  under  his  very  nose,  and 
never  look  out  to  see  who  did  it. 
How  ever  will  things  go  on  if  the 
worst  happens  to  his  brother  ?" 

It  seemed  that  they  were  all  saying 
the  same, — how  ever  would  things  go 
on  if  the  worst  happened  to  Thomas 
Godolphin. 

For  once  in  his  life  of  service  the 
old  clerk  chose  to  ignore  the  wish — 
the  command,  if  you  will — of  Mr. 
George  Godolphin.  He  did  not  let 
Layton  alone.  Quite  the  contrary. 
No  sooner  did  Layton  enter  the  bank 
on  the  following  morning  than  Mr. 
Hurde  dropped  upon  him.  He  had 
been  watching  for  his  entrance  the 
last  ten  minutes  ;  for  Mr.  Layton 
arrived  late,  the  result  possibly  of  the 
past  night's  extensive  scene  of  revelry. 
He  had  taken  off  his  hat  and  settled 
himself  in  his  place  behind  the  counter, 
when  the  chief  clerk's  voice  arrested 
him. 

"  I  want  you,  Layton." 

Now,  the  fact  was,  Mr.  Hurde, 
having  slept  upon  the  matter,  arose, 
perplexed  by  sundry  doubts.  The 
circumstances  against  Layton  ap- 
peared by  no  means  so  conclusive  to 
his  mind  as  they  had  done  the  previous 
night.  Therefore  he  deemed  it  good 
policy  to  speak  to  that  suspected  gen- 
tleman in  a  temperate  spirit,  and  see 
whether  he  could  fish  anv  thing  out, 


rather  than  to  accuse  him  point-blank 
of  having  been  the  delinquent 

"  This  is  a  nasty  business,"  began 
he,  when  Layton  reached  him,  in  an- 
swer to  his  call. 

"  What  is  ?"  asked  Layton. 

"  What  is  !"  repeated'  Mr.  Hurde, 
believing  that  the  loss  must  have  af- 
fected everybody  connected  with  the 
establishment  as  it  was  affecting  him, 
and  doubting  whether  the  indifferent 
answer  was  not  a  negative  proof  of 
guilt.  "  What  should  be,  but  this 
loss  that  has  been  spoken  of  in  the 
bank  ?" 

"  Oh,  that,"  returned  Layton.  "  I 
dare  say  it  will  be  found. " 

"  It  places  us  all  in  a  very  awkward 
position,  from  myself  downwards," 
went  on  Hurde,  who  was  by  no  means 
a  conjurer  at  the  task  he  had  under- 
taken. "  There's  no  knowing  what  or 
whom  Mr.  Godolphin's  suspicions  may 
be  turning  to." 

"  Rubbish  !"  retorted  Layton.  "  It's 
not  probable  Mr.  Godolphin  would 
begin  to  doubt  any  of  us.  There's  no 
cause." 

"I  don't  know  that,"  said  Mr. 
Hurde,  significantly.  "I  am  not  so 
sure  of  some  of  you." 

Layton  opened  his  eyes.  He  sup- 
posed Mr.  Hurde  must  be  alluding  to 
some  one  clerk  in  particular  ;  must 
have  cause  to  do  it ;  but  he  did  not 
glance  at  himself.  "  Why  do  you  say 
that  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Well,  it  has  occurred  to  me  that 
some  one  or  two  of  you  may  be  living 
at  a  rate  that  your  salary  would 
neither  pay  for  nor  justify.  You  for 
one." 

"  I  ?"  returned  Layton. 

"  Yes,  you.  Horses,  and  gigs,  and 
wine,  and  company,  and  pianos.  They 
can't  be  managed  out  of  a  hundred  a 
year." 

Layton  was  taken  rather  aback. 
Not  to  make  an  unnecessary  mystery 
over  it,  it  may  as  well  be  mentioned 
that  all  these  expenses  which  so 
troubled  old  Hurde,  the  clerk  was 
really  paying  for  honestly.  But  not 
out  of  the  salary.     An  uncle  of  his 


270 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


wife's  was  allowing  them  an  addition 
to  their  income,  and  this  supplied  the 
extra  luxuries.  He  resented  the  in- 
sinuation. 

"  Whether  they  are  managed  out  of 
it,  or  whether  they  are  not,  is  no  busi- 
ness of  yours,  Mr.  Hurde,"  he  said, 
after  a  pause.  "  I  shall  not  come  to 
you  to  pay  for  them,  or  to  the  bank 
either. " 

"  It  is  my  business,"  replied  the  old 
clerk.  '"It  is  Mr.  Godolphin's  busi- 
ness, which  is  the  same  thing.  Pray, 
how  long  since  is  it  that  you  have  be- 
come a  betting  man  ?" 

"  I  am  not  a  betting  man,"  said 
L^Tyton. 

"Oh,  indeed!  You  have  not  bet 
upon  Cannonbar,  I  suppose  ?  You 
never  put  into  a  sweepstakes  in  your 
life  ? — you  are  not  in  any  now,  are 
you  ?" 

Layton  could  only  open  his  mouth 
in  astonishment,  He  thought  nothing 
less  but  that  the  spirits, — then  in  the 
height  of  fashion, — must  have  been  at 
work.  He  was  really  no  betting  man  ; 
had  never  been  inclined  that  way  ;  but 
latterly,  to  oblige  some  friend,  who 
bothered  him  over  it,  he  had  gone  in- 
to a  sweepstakes  and  drawn  the  re- 
nowned horse,  Cannonbar.  And  had 
followed  it  up  by  betting  a  pound  upon 
him. 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Layton,  your  pur- 
suits are  not  quite  so  inexpensively 
simple  as  you  would  wish  to  make 
them  appear.  These  things  happen 
to  have  come  to  my  knowledge,  and  I 
have  thought  it  my  duty  to  mention 
them  to  Mr.  Godolphin.'" 

Layton  flew  into  a  gust  of  passion. 
Partly  in  the  soreness  of  feeling  at 
having  been  so  closely  looked  after  ; 
partly  in  anger  that  dishonesty  could 
be  associated  with  him  ;  and  chiefly  at 
hearing  that  he  had  been  so  obnox- 
iously reported  to  Mr.  Godolphin. 
"  Have  you  told  him,"  he  foamed, 
"  that  you  suspect  me  of  robbing  the 
strong-room  ?" 

"  Somebody  has  robbed  it,"  was  Mr. 
Hurde's  rejoinder.  "And  has  no  doubt 
made  money  of  the  deeds  he  stole." 

"  I  ask  you  if  you  have  told  Mr. 


Godolphin  that  you  cast  this  suspicion 
to  me  ?"  reiterated  Layton,  stamping 
his  foot. 

"  What  if  I  have  ?  Appearances, 
in  my  opinion,  would  warrant  my 
casting  it  to  you." 

"  Then  you  had  better  cast  it  to 
Mr.  George  Godolphin.     There  !" 

But  they  were  completely  absorbed 
in  the  dispute,  their  voices  raised  to  a 
high  pitch, — at  least  Layton's, — they 
might  have  seen  Mr.  Godolphin  close 
to  them.  In  passing  through  the  bank 
from  his  carriage  to  his  private  room, 
for,  in  the  untoward  state  of  affairs, 
touching  the  loss,  he  had  come  be- 
times,— he  was  attracted  by  the  angry 
sounds,  and  turned  towards  them. 

"  Is  any  thing  the  matter  ?" 

They  looked  round,  saw  Mr.  Go- 
dolphin, and  their  voices  and  their 
tempers  alike  dropped  to  a  calm. 
Neither  appeared  inclined  to  answer 
the  proffered  question,  and  Mr.  Go- 
dolphin passed  on.  Another  minute 
or  two,  and  a  message  came  from  him, 
commanding  the  presence  of  the  chief 
clerk. 

"  Hurde,"  he  began,  "  have  you  been 
speaking  to  Layton  of  what  you  men- 
tioned to  me  last  night  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  that's  what  it  was.  It 
put  him  in  a  passion." 

"He  disclaims  the  suspicion,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"  Out-and-out,  sir,"  was  the  answer 
of  Mr.  Hurde.  "  He  says  bis  wife  has 
an  income  independent  of  himself,  and 
that  he  put  into  a  sweepstakes  lately 
to  oblige  a  friend,  and  staked  a  sove- 
reign on  the  horse  he  drew.  He  says 
it  is  all  he  ever  staked  in  his  life,  and 
all  he  ever  meant  to  stake.  He  was 
saying  this  when  you  sent  for  me.  I 
don't  know  what  to  think.  He  speaks 
honest  enough  to  listen  to  him." 

"  What  remark  did  I  hear  him 
making  relative  to  Mr.  George  Go- 
dolphin ?" 

"  He  ought  to  be  punished  for  that," 
replied  Mr.  Hurde.  "Better  suspect 
Mr.  George  than  suspect  him,  was 
what  he  said.  I  don't  know  what  he 
meant,  and  I  don't  think  he  knew  him- 
self, sir." 


TH  E      SHAD  OW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


271 


"Why  did  he  say  it?" 

"  When  men  are  beside  themselves 
with  passion,  sir,  they  say  any  thing 
that  comes  uppermost.  They  are  not 
nice  to  a  shade.  I  asked  him,  after 
you  went,  what  he  meant  by  it,  but  he 
would  not  say  any  more." 

"  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken  in 
suspecting  Layton,  Hurde.  I  thought 
so  last  night." 

"Well,  sir,  maybe  I  am,"  acknow- 
ledged Hurde.  "  I  don't  feel  so  sure 
of  it  as  I  did.  But  then  comes  the 
old  puzzle  back  again  as  to  who  could 
have  taken  the  deeds.  Layton  would 
not  have  been  so  fierce  but  that  he 
found  the  doubt  had  been  mentioned 
to  you,"  added  Mr.  Hurde,  returning 
to  the  subject  of  the  clerk's  explosion 
of  anger. 

"  Did  you  tell  him  you  had  men- 
tioned it  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  did.  It's  not  my  way 
to  hide  faults  in  a  corner ;  and  that 
the  clerks  know." 

Mr.  Godolphin  dropped  the  subject, 
and  entered  upon  some  general  busi- 
ness. The  old  clerk  remained  with 
him  about  ten  minutes,  and  then  was 
at  liberty  to  withdraw. 

"  Send  Layton  to  me,"  was  the  or- 
der as  he  went  out.  And  the  clerk, 
Layton,  appeared  in  obedience  to  it. 

Thomas  Godolphin  received  him 
kindly,  his  manner  and  words  had  all 
the  repose  of  quiet  confidence.  He 
believed  Mr.  Hurde  to  be  completely 
mistaken,  to  have  erred  through  zeal, 
and  he  intimated  as  much  to  Layton. 
He  might  not  have  personally  entered 
on  the  topic  with  him,  but  for  Lay- 
ton's  hearing  that  he  had  been  accused 
to  him. 

Layton's  heart  opened  to  his  mas- 
ter. He  was  a  good-dispositioned 
man  when  not  exasperated.  He 
frankly  volunteered  to  Mr.  Godolphin 
the  amount  total  of  his  wife's  income 
and  its  source ;  he  stated  that  he  was 
not  living  by  one  penny  more  than  he 
could  afford  ;  and  he  distinctly  denied 
being  a  betting  man,  either  by  prac- 
tice or  inclination, — save  for  the  one 
bet  of  a  pound,  which  he  had  made 
incidentally.    Altogether,  his  explana- 


tion was  perfectly  satisfactory  to  Mr. 
Godolphin. 

"  Understand  me,  Layton,  I  did  not, 
myself,  cast  the  slightest  doubt  upon 
you.  To  do  so,  never  occurred  to 
me." 

"  I  hope  not,  sir,"  was  Layton's  re- 
ply. "  Mr.  Hurde  has  his  crotchets, 
and  we,  who  are  under  him,  must  put 
up  with  them.  His  bark  is  worse 
than  his  bite, — that  much  may  be 
said." 

"  Yes  ?"  said  Thomas  Godolphin. 
"You  might  fare  worse  in  that  re- 
spect than  you  do  under  Mr.  Hurde. 
What  was  the  meaning  of  the  words 
you  spoke,  relative  to  Mr.  George  Go- 
dolphin V 

Layton  felt  that  his  face  was  on  fire. 
He  muttered,  in  his  confusion,  some- 
thing to  the  effect  that  it  was  a  "  slip 
of  the  tongue." 

"  But  you  must  be  aware  that  such 
slips  are  entirely  unjustifiable.  Some 
cause  must  have  induced  you  to  say 
it.     What  may  it  have  been  ?" 

"The  truth  is,  sir,  I  was  in  a  pas- 
sion when  I  said  it,"  replied  Layton, 
compelled  to  speak.  "I  am  very 
sorry. " 

"You  are  evading  my  question," 
quietly  replied  Thomas  Godolphin. 
"I  ask  you  what  could  have  induced 
you  to  say  it.  There  must  have  been 
something  to  lead  to  the  remark." 

"  I  did  not  mean  any  thing,  I  de- 
clare to  you,  sir.  Mr.  Hurde  vexed 
me  by  casting  the  suspicion  upon  me  ; 
and,  in  the  moment's  anger,  I  retort- 
ed that  he  might  as  well  cast  it  upon 
Mr.  George  Godolphin." 

Thomas  Godolphin  pressed  the 
question.  In  Layton's  voice,  when  he 
had  uttered  it,  distorted  though  it  was 
with  passion,  his  ears  had  detected  a 
strange  sound  of  meaning.  "But 
why  upon  Mr.  George  Godolphin  ? 
Why  more  upon  him  than  any  other  ? 
— upon  mvself,  for  instance ;  or  Mr. 
Hurde  ?» 

Layton  was  silent.  Thomas  Godol- 
phin waited,  his  serene  countenance 
fixed  upon  the  clerk's. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  have  had  in  my 
head   a   remark    I   heard    yesterday, 


272 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


sir,"  ho  slowly  rejoined.  "  Heaven 
knows,  though,  I  paid  no  heed  to  it; 
and  how  I  came  to  forget  myself  so 
in  my  passion,  I  don't  know.  I  am 
sure  I  thought  nothing  of  it,  after- 
wards, until  Mr.  Hurde  spoke  to  me 
this  morning." 

"  What  was  the  remark  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Godolphin. 

"  Sir,  it  was  that  sporting  man,  Jol- 
ly,who  said  it.  He  fastened  himself  on 
me  last  evening,  in  going  from  here, 
and  I  could  not  get  rid  of  him  until 
ten  at  night.  We  were  talking  about 
different  things, — the  great  discount 
houses  in  London,  and  one  thing  or 
other;  and  he  said,  incidentally,  that 
Mr.  George  Godolphin  had  got  a  good 
deal  of  paper  in  the  market." 

Thomas  Godolphin  paused.  "Did 
he  assert  that  he  knew  this  ?" 

"  He  was  pretending  to  assert  many 
things,  as  of  his  own  knowledge.  I 
asked  him  how  he  knew  it,  and  he  re- 
plied a  friend  of  his  had  seen  it, — 
meaning  the  paper.  It  was  all  he 
said ;  and  how  I  came  to  repeat  such 
a  thing  after  him,  I  cannot  tell.  I 
hope  you  will  excuse  it,  sir." 

"  I  cannot  help  excusing  it,"  replied 
Mr.  Godolphin.  "  You  said  the  thing, 
and  you  cannot  unsay  it.  It  was  very 
wrong.  Take  care  that  you  do  not 
give  utterance  to  it  again." 

Layton  withdrew,  inwardly  vowing 
that  he  never  would.  In  point  of  fact, 
he  had  not  attached  much  credence  to 
the  information  ;  and  could  now  have 
bitten  his  tongue  out  for  repeating  it. 
He  wondered  whether  they  could 
prosecute  him  for  slander ;  or  whether, 
if  it  came  to  the  cars  of  Mr.  George, 
they  would.  Mr.  Godolphin  had  met 
it  with  the  considerate  generosityevcr 
characteristic  of  him  ;  but  Mr.  George 
was  different  from  his  brother.  If 
ever  a  man  in  this  world  lived  up  to 
the  divine  command,  "  Do  as  ye  would 
be  done  by,"  that  man  was  Thomas 
Godolphin. 

But  the  words,  nevertheless,  had 
grated  on  Thomas  Godolphin's  ears. 
That  George  was  needlessly  lavish  in 
expenditure,  he  knew  :  but  not  more 
so   than  his  income  allowed,  did  he 


choose  to  spend  it  all, — unless  he  had 
secret  sources  of  expense.  A  flush 
came  over  Thomas  Godolphin's  face 
as  the  idea  suggested  itself  to  his 
mind.  Once  in  the  train  of  thought, 
he  could  not  stop  it.  Had  George 
private  valves  for  expenditure,  of  which 
the  world  knew  nothing  ?  Could  he 
have  been  using  the  bank's  money  ? — ■ 
could  it  be  he  who  had  taken  Lord 
Averil's  deeds  ?  Like  unto  Isaac  Hast- 
ings, the  red  flush  of  shame  dyed 
Thomas's  brow  at  the  thought, — shame 
for  his  own  obtrusive  imagination,  that 
could  conjure  up  such  things  of  his 
brother.  Thomas  had  never  conjured 
them  up,  but  for  the  suggestion  gratu- 
itously imparted  to  him  by  Layton. 

But  he  could  not  drive  it  down. 
~So  ;  like  the  vision  which  had  been 
gratuitously  presented  to  the  Rever- 
end Mr.  Hastings,  and  which  he  had 
been  unable  to  lay,  Thomas  Godolphin 
could  not  drive  it  down.  In  a  sort  of 
panic — a  panic  caused  by  his  own 
thoughts — he  called  for  certain  of  the 
books  to  be  brought  to  him. 

Some  of  those  wanted  were  in 
George  Godolphin's  room.  It  was 
Isaac  Hastings  who  was  sent  in  there 
for  them. 

"  The  books  !"  exclaimed  George, 
looking  at  Isaac. 

"  Mr.  Godolphin  wants  them,  sir." 

It  was  entirely  out  of  the  common 
for  these  books  to  come  under  the  in- 
spection (unless  at  periodical  times) 
of  Mr.  Godolphin.  The  very  asking 
for  them  implied  a  doubt  on  George 
— at  least,  it  sounded  so  to  that  gen- 
tleman's all-conscions  ears.  He  point- 
ed out  the  books  to  Isaac,  in  silence, 
with  the  feather-end  of  his  pen. 

Isaac  Hastings  carried  them  to  Mr.' 
Godolphin,  and  left  them  with  him. 
Mr.  Godolphin  turned  them  rapidly 
over  and  over  :  they  appeared,  so  far 
as  he  could  see  at  a  cursory  glance,  to 
be  all  right ;  the  balance  on  the  credit 
side  weighty,  the  available  funds  next 
door  to  inexhaustible,  the  bank  al- 
together flourishing.  Thomas  took 
greater  shame  to  himself  for  having 
doubted  his  brother.  While  thus  en- 
gaged, an  observation  suddenly  struck 


T  II  B      SHADOW      OF      ASH  L  YDYAT, 


273 


him, — that  all  the  entries  were  in 
George's  handwriting.  A  few  minutes 
subsequent  to  this,  George  came  into 
the  room. 

"  George,"  he  exclaimed,  "  how  in- 
dustrious you  have  become  1" 

"  Industrious  ?"  repeated  George, 
looking  round  for  an  explanation. 

"All  these  entries  are  yours.  For- 
merly you  would  not  have  done  as 
much  in  a  year." 

George  laughed.  "I  had  used  to 
be  incorrigibly  idle.  It  was  well  to 
turn  over  a  new  leaf." 

He — George — was  going  out  of  the 
room  again,  but  his  brother  stopped 
him.  "  Stay  here,  George.  I  want 
you." 

Mr.  Godolphin  pointed  to  a  chair  as 
he  spoke,  and  George  sat  down  in  it. 
George,  who  seemed  rather  inclined  to 
have  the  fidgets,  took  out  his  penknife 
and  began  cutting  at  an  offending 
nail. 

"Are  you  in  any  embarrassment, 
George  ?" 

"  In  embarrassment  ?  I !  Oh  dear 
no." 

Thomas  paused.  Dropping  his  voice, 
he  resumed  in  a  lower  tone,  but  just 
removed  from  a  whisper  : 

"  Have  you  paper  flying  about  the 
discount  markets  ?" 

George  Godolphin's  fair  face  grew 
scarlet.  Was  it  with  conscious  emo- 
tion ? — or  with  virtuous  indignation  ? 
Thomas  assumed  it  to  be  the  latter. 
How  could  he  give  it  an  opposite 
meaning  from  the  indignant  words 
which  it  accompanied.  A  burst  of  in- 
dignation which  Thomas  stopped. 

"  Stay,  George.  There  is  no  neces- 
sity to  put  yourself  out.  I  never 
supposed  it  to  be  any  thing  but  false 
when  the  rumor  of  it  reached  my  ear. 
Only  tell  me  the  truth  cpiietly." 

Possibly  George  would  have  been 
glad  to  tell  the  truth,  and  get  so  much 
of  the  burden  off  his  mind.  But  he 
did  not  dare.  He  might  have  shi'unk 
from  the  terrible  confession  at  any 
time  to  his  kind,  his  good,  his  upright 
brother  :  but  things  had  become  too 
bad  to  be  told  to  him  now.  If  the  ex- 
pose did  come,  why  it  must,  and  there 
IT 


would  be  no  help  for  it :  tell  him  vol- 
untarily, he  could  not.  By  some  great 
giant  strokes  of  luck  and  policy,  it 
might  be  averted  yet :  how  neces- 
sary, then,  to  keep  it  from  Thomas 
Godolphin  ! 

"  The  truth  is,"  said  George,  "that 
I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  To 
what  rumor  are  you  alluding  ?" 

"  It  has  been  said  that  you  have  a 
good  deal  of  paper  in  the  market. 
The  report  was  spoken,  and  it  reached 
my  ears." 

"  It's  not  true.  It's  all  an  inven- 
tion," cried  George,  vehemently. 
"  Should  I  be  such  a  fool  ?  There  are 
some  people  who  live,  it's  my  belief, 
by  striving  to  work  ill  to  others.  Mr. 
Hastings  was  with  me  this  morning. 
He  had  heard  a  rumor  that  something 
Was  wrong  with  the  bank." 

"  With  the  bank  !     In  what  way  ?" 

"  Oh,  of  course,  people  must  have 
gathered  a  version  of  the  loss  here, 
and  interpreted  it  after  their  own 
charitable  opinions,"  replied  George, 
returning  to  his  usual  careless  mode 
of  speech.  "  The  only  plan  is  to  laugh 
at  them." 

"As  you  can  at  the  rumor  regard- 
ing you  and  the  bills  ?"  remarked 
Thomas. 

"As  I  can,  and  do,"  answered  easy 
George.  Never  more  easy,  more  ap- 
parently free  from  care  than  in  that 
moment.  Thomas  Godolphin,  truth- 
ful himself,  open  as  the  day,  not  glanc- 
ing to  the  possibility  that  George 
could  be  deliberately  otherwise,  felt 
all  his  confidence  come  back  to  him. 
George  went  out,  and  Thomas  turned 
to  the  books  again. 

Yes.  They  were  all  in  order,  all 
right.  With  those  flourishing  state- 
ments before  him,  how  could  he  have 
been  so  foolish  as  to  cast  a  suspicion 
to  George  ?  Thomas  had  a  pen  in  one 
hand,  and  the  forefinger  of  the  other 
pointed  to  the  page,  when  his  face 
went  white  as  of  one  in  mortal  agony, 
and  the  drops  of  moisture  oozed  out 
upon  his  brow. 

The  same  pain,  which  had  taken 
him  occasionally  before,  had  come 
again.     Mortal    agony   in    verity    it 


274 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


seemed.  He  dropped  the  pen  ;  he  lay 
back  in  his  chair  ;  he  thought  he  must 
have  fallen  to  the  ground.  How  long 
he  so  lay  he  could  not  quite  tell  ;  not 
very  long  probably,  counting  by  min- 
utes ;  but  counting  by  pain  long 
enough  for  a  lifetime.  Isaac  Hastings, 
coming  in  with  a  message,  found  him. 
Isaac  stood  aghast. 

"  I  am  not  very  well,  Isaac.  Give 
me  your  arm.  I  will  go  and  sit  awhile 
in  the  dining-room." 

"  Shall  I  run  over  for  Mr.  Snow, 
sir  ?" 

"  No.  I  shall  be  better  soon.  In 
fact,  I  am  better,  or  I  could  not  talk 
to  you.     It  was  a  sudden  pain." 

He  leaned  upon  Isaac  Hastings,  and 
gained  the  dining-room.  It  was  empty. 
Isaac  left  him  there,  and  proceeded, 
unordered,  to  acquaint  Mr.  George 
Godolphin.     He  could  not  find  him. 

"Mr.  George  is  gone  out,"  said  a 
clerk.     "  Not  two  minutes  ago." 

"  I  had  better  tell  Maria,  then," 
thought  Isaac.  "  He  does  not  look 
lit  to  be  left  alone." 

Speeding  up  the  stairs  to  Maria's 
sitting-room,  he  found  her  in  it,  talk- 
ing to  Margery.  Miss  Meta,  in  a  cool 
brown-holland  dress  and  a  large  straw 
hat,  was  dancing  about  in  glee.  She 
danced  up  to  him. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  hayficld  to  make 
haycocks,"  saidshe.  "  Will  you  come?" 

"  Don't  I  wish  I  could  !"  he  replied, 
catching  her  up.  "  It  is  fine  to  be 
Miss  Meta  Godolphin  !  to  have  noth- 
ing to  do  all  day  but  roll  in  the  hay." 

She  struggled  to  get  down.  Mar- 
gery was  waiting  to  depart.  A  terrible 
thing  if  Margery  should  have  all  the 
rolling  to  herself  and  Meta  be  left  be- 
hind !  They  went  out,  and  he  turned 
to  his  sister. 

"  Maria,  Mr.  Godolphin  is  in  the 
dining-room,  ill.  I  thought  I'd  come 
and  tell  you.  He  looks  too  ill  to  be 
left." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  him?" 
she  asked. 

"A  sudden  pain,"  he  said.  "  I  hap- 
pened to  go  into  his  room  with  a  mes- 
sage, and  saw  him.  I  thought  he  was 
dead  at  first ;  he  looked  so  ghastly." 


Maria  hastened  down-stairs.  Thom- 
as, better,  then,  but  looking  fearfully 
ill  still,  leaned  upon  the  arm  of  a 
couch.  Maria  went  up  and  took  his 
hand. 

"  Oh,  Thomas,  vou  do  look  ill ! 
What  is  it  ?" 

He  gazed  into  her  face  with  a  serene 
countenance,  a  quiet  smile.  "  It  is 
only  another  of  my  warnings,  Maria. 
I  have  been  so  much  better  that  I  am 
not  sure  but  I  thought  they  were  gone 
for  good." 

Maria  drew  forward  a  chair  and 
sat  down  by  him.  "  Warnings  ?"  she 
repeated. 

"  Of  the  end.  You  must  be  aware, 
Maria,  that  I  am  attacked  with  a  fatal 
malady." 

Maria  was  not  entirely  unaware  of 
it,  but  she  had  never  understood  that 
the  fatal  termination  was  inevitable. 
She  did  not  know  but  he  might  live 
to  be  an  old  man.  "  Can  nothing  be 
done  for  you  ?"  she  breathed. 

"Nothing." 

Her  eyes  glistened  with  the  rising 
tears.  "  Oh,  Thomas  !  you  must  not 
die  !  We  could  none  of  us  bear  to 
lose  you.  George  could  not  do  with- 
out you  ;  Janet  could  not ;  I  think  I 
could  not." 

He  gently  shook  his  head.  "We 
may  not  pick  and  choose,  Maria, — 
who  shall  stop  here,  and  who  be  taken. 
Those  go  sometimes  who,  seemingly, 
can  be  least  best  spared." 

She  could  scarcely  speak ;  afraid 
lest  the  sobs  should  come,  for  her  heart 
was  aching.  "  But  surely  it  is  not  to 
be  speedy  ?"  she  murmured.  "  You 
may  live  on  a  long  while  yet  ?" 

"  The  doctors  tell  me  I  may  live  on 
for  years,  if  I  keep  myself  tranquil. 
I  think  they  are  wrong." 

"  Oh,  then,  Thomas,  you  surely 
will  !"  she  eagerly  said,  her  cheek 
flushing  with  emotion.  "  Who  can 
have  tranquillity  if  you  cannot  ?" 

How  ignorant  they  both  were  of  the 
black  cloud  looming  right  overhead, 
ready  then  to  burst,  and  send  forth 
its  sweeping  torrent  !  Tranquillity  ! 
Tranquillity  henceforth  for  Thomas 
Godolphin. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


275 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

gone! 

The  days  passed  on  to  a  certain 
Saturday.  An  ominous  Saturday  for 
the  family  of  the  Godolphins.  Rising 
rumors,  vague  at  the  best,  and  there- 
fore all  the  more  dangerous,  had  been 
spreading  in  Prior's  Ash  and  its  neigh- 
borhood. Some  said  the  bank  bad 
had  a  loss ;  some  said  the  bank  was 
creachy  ;  some  said  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin  had  been  lending  out  money  from 
the  bank's  funds ;  some  said  their 
London  agents  had  failed  ;  some  ac- 
tually said  that  Thomas  Godolphin 
was  dead.  The  various  phases  that 
the  rumors  took  were  something  ex- 
travagantly marvellous  :  but  the 
whole,  combined,  whispered  ominous- 
ly of  danger.  Only  let  public  fear  be 
thoroughly  aroused,  and  it  would  be 
all  over.  It  was  as  a  train  of  powder 
laid,  which  only  wants  one  touch  of  a 
lighted  match  to  set  it  exploding. 

Remittances  arrived  on  the  Satur- 
day morning,  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  business.  Valuable  remittances. 
Sufficient  for  the  usual  routine  of 
business  :  but  not  sufficient  for  any 
unusual  routine.  On  the  Friday  after- 
noon a  somewhat  untoward  incident 
had  occurred.  A  stranger  presented 
himself  at  the  bank  and  demanded  to 
see  Mr.  George  Godolphin.  The 
clerk  to  whom  he  addressed  himself 
left  him  standing  at  the  counter,  and 
went  away, — to  acquaint,  as  the 
stranger  supposed,  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin :  but,  in  point  of  fact,  the  clerk 
was  not  sure  whether  Mr.  George  was 
in  or  out.  Finding  he  was  out,  he 
told  Mr.  Hurde,  who  went  forward : 
and  was  taken  by  the  stranger  for  Mr. 
George  Godolphin.  Not  personally 
knowing  (as  it  would  appear)  Mr. 
George  Godolphin,  it  was  a  natural 
enough  mistake.  A  staid  man,  look- 
ing like  a  gentleman,  with  staid  spec- 
tacles, might  well  be  supposed  by  a 
stranger  to  be  one  of  the  firm. 

"  I  have  got  a  claim  upon  you," 
said  the  stranger,  drawing  a  piece  of 


paper  out  of  his  pocket,  "Will  you 
be  so  good  as  settle  it  ?" 

Mr.  Hurde  took  the  paper  and 
glanced  over  it.  It,  was  an  accepted 
bill,  George  Godolphin's  name  to  it. 

"  I  cannot  say  any  thing  about  this," 
Mr.  Hurde  was  beginning :  but  the 
applicant  interrupted  him. 

"  I  don't  want  any  thing  said.  I 
want  it  paid." 

"You  should  have  heard  me  out," 
rejoined  Mr.  Hurde.  "  I  cannot  Bay 
or  do  anything  in  this  myself:  you 
must  see  Mr.  George  Godolphin.  He 
is  out,  but " 

"  Come,  none  of  that  gammon  !"  in- 
terposed the  stranger  again,  who  ap- 
peared to  have  come  prepared  to  enter 
upon  contests.  "  I  was  warned  there'd 
be  a  bother  over  it:  that  Mr.  George 
Godolphin  would  deny  himself,  and 
say  black  was  white  if  necessary. 
You  can't  do  me,  Mr.  George  Go- 
dolphin." 

"  You  are  not  taking  me  for  Mr. 
George  Godolphin !"  exclaimed  the 
old  clerk,  uncertain  whether  to  believe 
his  ears. 

"Yes  I  am  taking  you  for  Mr. 
George  Godolphin,"  doggedly  returned 
the  man.  "Will  you  take  up  this 
bill  ?" 

"  I  am  not  Mr.  George  Godolphin. 
Mr.  George  Godolphin  will  be  in  pres- 
ently, and  you  can  see  him." 

"  It's  a  do,"  cried  the  stranger.  "  I 
want  this  paid.  I  know  the  claims 
there  are  against  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin, and  I  have  come  all  the  way 
from  town  to  enforce  mine,  /don't 
want  to  come  in  with  the  ruck  of  his 
creditors,  who'll  get  a  sixpence  in  the 
pound,  maybe." 

A  very  charming  announcement  to 
be  made  in  a  banking-house.  The 
clerks  pricked  up  their  ears  ;  the  two 
or  three  customers  who  were  present 
turned  round  from  the  counters  and 
listened  for  more ;  for  the  civil  gen- 
tlemen had  not  deemed  it  necessary  to 
speak  in  a  subdued  tone.  Mr.  Hurde, 
scared  out  of  his  propriety,  in  mortal 
fear  lest  any  thing  worse  might  come, 
hurried  the  man  to  a  safe  place,  and 


276 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


left  liim  there  to  await  the  entrance  of 
Mr.  George  Godolphin. 

Whether  this  incident,  mentioned 
outside  (as  it  was  sure  to  be),  put  the 
finishing  touch  to  the  rumors  already 
in  circulation,  cannot  be  known. 
Neither  was  it  known  to  those  interest- 
ed, what  Mr.  George  did  with  his 
loud  and  uncompromising  customer, 
when  he  at  length  entered  and  ad- 
mitted him  to  an  interview.  It  is 
possible  that  but  for  this  untoward 
application,  the  crash  might  not  have 
come  quite  so  soon. 

Saturday  morning  rose  busily,  as 
was  usual  at  Prior's  Ash.  However 
stagnant  the  town  might  be  on  other 
days,  Saturday  was  always  full  of  life 
and  bustle.  Prior's  Ash  was  renown- 
ed for  its  grain  market ;  and  dealers 
from  all  parts  of  the  country  flocked 
in  to  attend  it.  But  on  this  morning 
some  unusual  excitement  appeared  to 
be  stirring  the  town, — natives  and 
visitors.  People  stood  about  in 
groups,  talking,  listening,  asking  ques- 
tions, consulting:  and  as  the  morning 
hours  wore  on,  an  unwonted  stream 
appeared  to  be  setting  in  towards  the 
house  of  Godolphin,  Crosse,  and  Go- 
dolphin.  Whether  the  reports  might 
be  true  or  false,  there'd  be  no  barm 
just  to  draw  their  money  out,  and  be 
on  the  safe  side,  was  the  mental  re- 
mark made  by  hundreds.  Could  put 
it  in  again  when  the  storm  had  blown 
over, — if  it  proved  to  be  only  a  false 
alarm. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  was 
little  wonder  that  the  bank  was  un- 
usually favored  with  visitors.  One 
strange  feature  in  their  application 
was,  that  they  all  wanted  to  draw 
out  money  ;  not  a  soul  came  to  pay 
any  in.  George  Godolphin,  fully 
aware  of  the  state  of  things,  alive  to 
the  danger,  was  present  in  person, 
his  words  gracious,  his  bearing  easy, 
his  smile  gay  as  ever.  Only  to  look 
at  him  eased  some  of  them  of  half 
their  doubt. 

But  it  did  not  stop  their  checks, 
and  old  Hurde  (whatever  George  may 
have  done)  grew  white  with  fear. 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  send  for 


Mr.  Godolphin,  sir !"  he  whispered. 
"  We  can't  go  on  long  at  this  rate." 

"  What  good  can  he  do  ?"  returned 
George. 

"Mr.  George,  he  ought  to  be  sent 
to, — to  be  let  known  what's  going  on  ; 
it  is  an  imperative  duty,"  remonstrated 
the  clei'k,  in  a  strangely  severe  tone. 
"  In  fact,  sir,  if  you  don't  send,  I 
must.     I  am  responsible  to  him." 

"Send,  then,"  said  George.  "I 
only  thought  to  spare  him  vexation." 

Mr.  Hurde  beckoned  Isaac  Hast- 
ings. "  Fly  for  your  life  Up  to  Ash- 
lydvat  and  see  Mr.  Godolphin,"  he 
breathed  in  his  ear.  "  Tell  him  there's 
a  run  upon  the  bank." 

Isaac  passing  through  the  bank 
with  apparent  unconcern,  easy  and 
careless  as  if  he  had  taken  a  leaf  from 
the  book  of  George  Godolphin,  did 
not  let  the  grass  grow  under  his  feet 
when  he  was  out.  But  instead  of 
turning  towards  Ashlydyat,  he  took 
the  way  to  All  Souls'  Rectory. 

Getting  there  panting  and  breath- 
less, he  dashed  in,  and  dashed  against 
his  brother  Reginald,  not  five  minutes 
arrived  from  a  two-years'  absence  at 
sea.  Scarcely  affording  half  a  mo- 
ment to  a  passing  greeting,  he  was 
hastening  out  of  the  room  again  in 
search  of  his  father. 

"  Do  you  call  that  a  welcome, 
Isaac  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hastings  in 
a  surprised  and  reproving  tone. 
"Where's  your  hurry?  One  would 
think  you  were  upon  an  errand  of  life 
and  death." 

"  So  I  am  :  it  is  little  short  of  it," 
he  replied,  in  agitation.  "  Regy,  don't 
stop  me  :  you  will  know  all  soon.  Is 
my  father  in  his  room  ?" 

"  He  is  gone  out,"  said  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings. 

"  Gone  out !"  The  words  sounded 
like  a  knell.  Unless  his  father  hasten- 
ed to  the  bank,  he  might  be  a  ruined 
man.     "  Where's  he  gone,  mother  ?" 

"  My  dear,  I  have  not  the  least  idea. 
What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

Isaac  took  one  instant's  dismayed 
counsel  with  himself :  he  had  not 
time  for  more.  He  could  not  go  in 
search    of  him :    he   must  hasten    to 


THE     S  II  A  D  0  W      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  I)  Y  A  T 


277 


Ashlydyit.  He  looked  up  :  laid  sum- 
mary hold  of  his  sister  Rose,  put  her 
outside  the  door,  closed  it,  aud  set  his 
back  against  it. 

"  Reginald,  listen  to  me.  You  must 
go  out  and  find  my  father.  Search 
for  him  everywhere.  Tell  him  there's 
a  run  upon  the  bank,  and  he  must  be 
in  haste  if  he  would  make  himself 
safe.  Mother,  could  you  look  for  him 
as  well  ?  The  Chisholms'  money  is 
there,  you  know,  and  it  would  be 
nothing  but  ruin." 

Mrs.  Hastings  gazed  at  Isaac  with 
wondering  eyes,  puzzled  with  per- 
plexity. 

"  Don't  you  understand,  mother  ?" 
he  urged.  "  /  can't  look  for  him  : 
I  ought  not  to  have  come  out  of  my 
way  as  far  as  here.  He  must  be 
found,  so  do  your  best,  Reginald. 
Of  course  you  will  be  cautious  to  say 
nothing  abroad  :  I  put  out  Rose  that 
she  might  not  hear." 

Opening  the  door  again,  passing 
the  indignant  Rose  without  so  much 
as  a  word,  Isaac  sped  across  the  road, 
and  dashed  through  some  cross-fields 
and  lanes  to  Ashtydyat.  His  detour 
had  not  hindered  him  above  three  or 
four  minutes,  for  he  went  at  the  pace 
of  a  steam-engine.  He  considered  it 
. — as  Hurde  had  said  by  Mr.  Godol- 
phin — an  imperative  duty  to  warn  his 
father.  Thomas  Godolphin  was  not 
up  when  he  got  to  Ashlydyat.  It 
was  only  between  ten  and  eleven 
o'clock. 

"  I  must  see  him,  Miss  Godolphin," 
he  said  to  Janet.     "  It  is  imperative." 

By  words  or  by  actions  putting 
aside  obstacles,  he  stood  within 
Thomas  Godolphin's  chamber.  The 
latter  had  passed  a  night  of  suffering, 
its  traces  remaining  on  his  counten- 
ance. 

"  I  shall  be  down  at  the  bank  some 
time  in  the  course  of  the  day,  Isaac  ; 
though  I  am  scarcely  equal  to  it,"  he 
observed,  as  soon  as  he  saw  him. 
"  Am  I  wanted  for  any  thing  in  par- 
ticular ?" 

"  I — I — am  sent  up  to  tell  you  bad 
news,  sir,"  replied  Isaac,  feeling  the 
communication  an  unpleasant  one  to 


make.  "  There's  a  run  upon  the 
bank." 

"  A  run  on  the  bank  !"  repeated 
Thomas  Godolphin,  scarcely  believing 
the  information. 

Isaac  explained.  A  complete  run. 
For  the  last  hour,  ever  since  the  bank 
opened,  people  had  been  thronging  in. 

Thomas  paused.  "  1  cannot  imagine 
what  can  have  led  to  it,"  he  resumed. 
"  Is  my  brother  visible  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  sir." 

"  That  is  well.  He  can  assure  them 
all  that  we  are  solvent, — that  there  is 
no  fear.   Have  the  remittances  come  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Rut  they  will  be  noth- 
ing, Mr.  Hurde  says,  with  a  run  like 
this  " 

"  Be  so  kind  as  to  touch  that  bell 
for  me,  Isaac,  to  bring  up  my  servant. 
I  will  be  at  the  bank  immediately." 

Isaac  rang  the  bell,  quitted  the 
room,  and  hastened  back.  The  bank 
was  fuller  than  ever :  and  its  coffers 
must  be  getting  low. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  whether 
my  father  has  been  in  ?"  he  whispered 
to  Layton,  next  to  whom  he  stood. 

Layton  shook  his  head  to  express 
a  negative.  "  I  think  not.  I  have 
not  observed  him." 

Isaac  stood  upon  thorns.  He  might 
not  quit  his  post.  Every  time  the 
doors  swung  to  and  fro — and  they 
were  incessantly  swinging — he  looked 
for  Mr.  Hastings.  But  he  looked  in 
vain.  By-and-by  Mr.  Hurde  came  for- 
ward, a  note  in  his  hand.  "  Put  on 
your  hat,  Layton,  and  take  this  round," 
said  he.     "  Wait  for  an  answer." 

"  Let  me  take  it,"  almost  shouted 
Isaac.  And,  without  waiting  for  as- 
sent or  dissent,  he  seized  the  note 
from  Mr.  Hurde's  hand,  caught  up  his 
hat,  and  was  gone.  Thomas  Godol- 
phin was  getting  out  of  his  carriage 
as  he  passed  out. 

Isaac  had  not,  this  time,  fo  go  out 
of  his  way.  The  delivery  of  the  note 
would  necessitate  his  passing  the  rec- 
tory. "  Rose  !"  he  uttered,  out  of 
breath  with  agitation  as  he  had  been 
before,  "  is  papa  not  in  ?" 

Rose  was  sitting  there  alone.  "  No," 
she  answered.     "  Mamma  and  Regi- 


27S 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


nald  went  nut  just  after  you.  Where 
did  you  send  them  to  ?" 

"  Then  they  ean't  find  him  !"  mut- 
tered Isaac  to  himself,  speeding  off 
again,  and  giving  Rose  no  answer. 
"  It  will  be  nothing  but  ruin." 

A  few  steps  farther,  and  who  should 
he  see  but  his  father.  The  Reverend 
Mr.  Hastings  was  coming  leisurely 
across  the  fields,  from  the  very  direc- 
tion which  Isaac  had  previously  trav- 
eled. He  had  probably  been  to  the 
Pollard  cottages :  he  did  sometimes 
take  that  round.  Hedges  and  ditches 
were  nothing  to  Isaac  in  the  moment's 
excitement,  and  he  leaped  one  of  each 
to  get  to  him :  it  cut  off  a  step  or  two. 

"  Where  were  you  going  an  hour 
ago  ?"  called  out  Mr.  Hastings  before 
they  met.  "  You  were  flying  as  swift 
as  the  wind." 

"  Oh,  father !"  wailed  out  Isaac, 
"  did  you  see  me  ?." 

"  What  should  hinder  me  ?  I  was 
at  old  Satcherly's." 

"  If  you  had  but  come  out  to  me  !  I 
would  rather  have  seen  you  then,  than 
— than  heaven,"  he  panted.  "  There's 
a  run  upon  the  bank.  If  you  don't 
make  haste  and  draw  out  your  money 
you'll  be  too  late." 

Mr.  Hastings  laid  his  hand  upon 
Isaac's  arm.  It  may  be  that  he  did 
not  comprehend  him  ;  for  his  utter- 
ance was  rapid  and  full  of  emotion. 
Isaac,  in  his  impulsive  eagerness, 
shook  it  off. 

"  There's  not  a  moment  to  lose, 
father.  I  don't  fancy  they  can  keep 
on  paving  long.  Half  the  town's 
there." 

Without  another  word  of  delay, 
Mr.  Hastings  turned  and  sped  along 
with  a  step  nearly  as  fleet  as  Isaac's. 
When  he  reached  the  bank  the  shut- 
ters were  being  put  up. 

"  The  bank  has  stopped,"  said  an 
officious  bystander  to  the  rector. 

It  Avas  even  so.  The  bank  had 
stopped.  The  good  old  firm  of  Go- 
dolphin,  Crosse,  and   Godolphin  had 

CONE. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

MURMURS — AND   CURIOUS  DOUBTS. 

We  hear  talk  now  and  again  of 
banks  breaking,  and  we  give  to  the 
sufferers  a  passing  sympathy ;  but 
none  can  realize  the  calamity  in  its 
full  and  awful  meaning,  save  those  who 
are  eye-witnesses  of  the  distress  it  en- 
tails, or  who  own,  unhappily,  a  per- 
sonal share  in  it.  When  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Hastings  walked  into  the  bank  of 
Godolphin,  Crosse,  and  Godolphin,  he 
knew  that  the  closing  of  the  shutters, 
then  in  act  and  process,  was  the  sym- 
bol of  a  fearful  misfortune,  which 
would  shake  to  its  centre  the  happy 
security  of  Prior's  Ash.  The  thought 
struck  him,  even  in  the  midst  of  his 
own  suspense  and  perplexity. 

One  of  the  first  faces  he  saw  was 
Mr.  Hurde's.  He  made  his  way  to 
him.  "  I  wish  to  draw  my  money  out," 
he  said. 

The  old  clerk  shook  his  head.  "  It's 
too  late,  sir." 

Mr.  Hastings  leaned  his  elbow  on 
the  counter,  and  approached  his  face 
nearer  to  the  clerk's.  "  I  don't  care 
(comparatively  speaking)  for  my  own 
money  ;  that  which  you  have  held  so 
long  ;  but  I  must  have  refunded  to  me 
what  has  been  just  paid  in  to  my  ac- 
count, but  which  is  none  of  mine, — the 
nine  thousand  pounds." 

Mr.  Hurde  paused  ere  he  replied,  as 
if  the  words  puzzled  him.  "  Nine 
thousand  pounds  !"  he  repeated. 
"  There  has  been  no  nine  thousand 
pounds  paid  in  to  your  account." 

"  There  has,"  was  the  reply  of  Mr. 
Hastings,  given  in  a  sharp,  distinct 
tone.  "  I  paid  it  in  myself,  and  hold 
the  receipt." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  the 
clerk,  dubiously.  "  I  had  your  ac- 
count under  my  eye  this  morning,  sir, 
and  saw  nothing  of  it.  But  there's  no 
fear,  Mr.  Hastings,  as  I  hope  and  trust," 
he  added,  confidentially  :  "  we  have 
telegraphed  up  for  remittances,  and 
expect  a  messenger  down  with  them 
before  the  day's  out." 

"  You   are    closins;  the   bank,"   re- 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASI1LYDYAT, 


279 


marked  Mr.  Hastings,  in  answering 
argument. 

"  We  are  obliged  to  do  that.  We 
had  not  an  ever-perpetual  renewing 
fountain  of  funds  here,  and  you  see 
how  people  have  been  thronging  in. 
On  Monday  morning  I  hope  the  hank 
will  be  open  again,  and  in  a  condition 
to  restore  full  confidence." 

Mr.  Hastings  felt  a  slight  ray  of  re- 
assurance. But  he  would  have  felt  a 
greater  had  the  nine  thousand  pounds 
been  handed  to  him  there  and  then.  He 
said  so  ;  in  fact,  he  pressed  the  mat- 
ter. How  ineffectually,  the  next  words 
of  the  clerk  told  him. 

"We  have  paid  away  all  we 
had,  Mr.  Hastings,"  he  whispered. 
"  There's  not  a  penny-piece  left  in  the 
coffers." 

"  You  have  paid  the  accounts  of  ap- 
plicants in  full,  I  presume  ?" 

"  Yes :  up  to  the  time  that  our 
funds  in  hand  lasted  to  do  it." 

"  Was  that  just  ? — to  the  body  of 
creditors  ?"  asked  the  rector,  in  a  severe 
tone. 

"  Where  was  the  help  for  it  ? — un- 
less we  had  stopped  when  the  run  be- 
gan ?" 

"  It  would  have  been  the  more  equa- 
ble way,  if  you  were  to  stop  at  all," 
remarked  Mr.  Hastings. 

"  But  we  did  not  know  we  should 
stop.  How  was  it  possible  to  foresee 
that  this  panic  was  about  to  arise  ? 
Sir,  all  I  can  say  is,  I  hope  that  Mon- 
day morning  will  see  you  and  every 
other  creditor  paid  in  full." 

Mr.  Hastings  was  pushed  away  from 
the  counter.  Panic-stricken  creditors 
were  crowding  there,  clamoring  to  be 
paid.  Mr.  Hastings  elbowed  his  way 
clear  of  the  throng,  and  stood  back, — 
stood  in  the  deepest  perplexity  and 
care.  What,  if  that  orphan-money 
entrusted  to  his  hands  should  be 
gone  ?  His  brow  grew  hot  at  the 
thought. 

Not  so  hot  as  other  brows  there, — 
brows  of  men  gifted  with  less  equable 
temperament  than  that  owned  by  the 
rector  of  All  Souls'.  One  gentleman 
came  in,  and  worked  his  way  to  the 


front,  the  perspiration  pouring  off  him- 
as  from  one  in  his  sharp  agony. 

"  I  want  my  money  !"  he  cried.  "  I 
shall  be  a  bankrupt  next  week  if  I 
can't  get  my  money." 

"  I  want  my  money  !"  cried  a  quieter 
voice  at  his  elbow ;  and  Mr.  Hastings 
recognized  the  speaker  as  Barnaby, 
the  corn-dealer. 

They  received  the  same  answer, — 
the  answer  which  was  being  reiterated 
in  so  many  parts  of  the  large  room,  in 
return  to  the  same  demand.  The  hank 
had  been  compelled  to  suspend  its 
payments  for  the  moment.  But  re- 
mittances were  sent  for,  and  would  be 
down,  if  not  that  day,  by  Monday 
morning. 

"When  I  paid  in  my  two  thousand 
pounds  a  few  days  ago,  I  asked 
whether  it  was  all  safe,  before  I'd 
leave  it,"  said  Mr.  Barnaby,  his  tone 
one  of  wailing  distress,  though  quiet 
still.  But,  quiet  as  it  was,  it  was 
heard  distinctly,  for  the  people  hushed 
their  murmurs  to  listen  to  it.  The 
prevalent  feeling,  for  the  most  part, 
was  exasperation  ;  and  any  downright 
good  cause  of  complaint  against  the 
bank  and  its  management  would  have 
been  half  as  welcome  to  the  unfortu- 
nate malcontents  as  their  money.  Mr. 
Barnaby  continued  : 

"I  had  heard  a  rumor  that  the  bank 
wasn't  right.  I  heard  it  at  Butt's. 
And  I  came  down  here  with  the  two 
thousand  pounds  in  my  hand,  and  I 
saw  Mr.  George  Godolphin  in  his  pri- 
vate room.  He  told  me  it  was  right ; 
that  there  was  nothing  the  matter 
with  it, — and  I  left  the  money.  I  am 
not  given  to  use  hard  words  ;  but, 
if  I  don't  get  it  paid  back  to  me, 
I  shall  say  I  have  been  swindled  out 
of  it," 

"  Mr.  George  couldn't  have  told  that 
there'd  be  this  run  upon  the  bank,  sir," 
replied  a  clerk,  making  the  best  answer 
that  he  could,  the  most  plausible  ex- 
cuse,— as  all  the  clerks  had  to  exert 
their  wits  to  do,  that  day.  "  The  bank 
was  all  right  then." 

"  If  it  was  all  right  then,  why  isn't 
it  all  ris^ht  now  ?"  roared  a  chorus  of 


280 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


"angry  voices.   "  Banks  don't  get  wrong 
in  a  day." 

"  Why  did  Mr.  George  Godolphin 
pass  his  word  to  me  that  it  was  safe  ?" 
repeated  Mr.  Barnaby,  as  though  he 
had  not  heard  the  arguments  of  refute. 
"  I  should  not  have  left  my,  money 
here  but  for  that." 

The  rector  of  All  Souls'  stood  his 
ground  behind,  and  listened.  But 
that  George  Godolphin  was  his  daugh- 
ter's husband,  he  would  have  echoed 
the  complaint:  that,  but  for  his  posi- 
tive assertion  of  the  bank's  solvency, 
he  should  not  have  left  his  money 
there, — the  trust- money  of  the  little 
Chisholms. 

When  the  bank  had  virtually  closed, 
the  order  gone  forth  to  put  up  the 
shutters,  Mr.  Godolphin  had  retired 
to  an  inner  room.  These  clamorous 
people  had  pushed  in  since,  in  defiance 
of  the  assurance  that  business  for  the 
day  was  over.  Some  of  them  de- 
manded to  see  Mr.  Godolphin.  Mr. 
Hurde  declined  to  introduce  them  to 
him.  In  doing  so,  he  was  acting  on 
his  own  responsibility, — perhaps  to 
save  that  gentleman  vexation,  perhaps 
out  of  consideration  for  his  state  of 
health.  He  knew  that  his  master, 
perplexed  and  astounded  with  the 
state  of  affairs,  could  only  answer  them 
as  he  did, — that,  on  Monday  morning, 
all  being  well,  the  bank  would  be  open 
for  business  again.  Did  any  under- 
current of  doubt,  that  this  would  be  the 
case,  run  in  Mr.  Hurde's  own  heart  ? 
If  it  did,  he  kept  it  down,  refusing  to 
admit  it  even  to  himself.  One  thing  is 
certain, — until  that  unpleasant  episode 
of  the  previous  day,  when  the  rough, 
unknown  man  had  applied  so  loudly 
and  inopportunely  for  money,  Mr. 
Hurde  would  have  been  ready  to  answer 
with  his  own  life  for  the  solvency  of  the 
house  of  Godolphin.  He  had  believed, 
not  only  in  the  ability  of  the  house  to 
meet  its  demands  and  liabilities,  but 
to  meet  them,  if  needful,  twice  over. 
That  man's  words,  reflecting  upon  Mr. 
George  Godolphin,  grated  on  Mr. 
Hurde's  ears  at  the  time,  and  the}'-  had 
grated  on  his  memory  since.     But,  so 


far  as  he  could,  he  had  beaten  them 
down. 

The  crowd  were  got  rid  of.  They 
became  at  length  aware  that  stopping 
there  would  not  answer  their  purpose 
in  any  way,  would  not  do  them  good. 
They  were  fain  to  content  themselves 
with  that  uncertain  assurance,  touch- 
ing Monday  morning,  and  went  out, 
the  door  being  immediately  barred 
upon  them.  If  the  catastrophe  of 
the  day  was  unpleasant  for  the  princi- 
pals, it  was  not  much  less  unpleasant 
for  the  clerks  ;  and  they  lost  no  time 
in  closing  the  entrance  when  the  op- 
portunity came.  The  only  one  who 
had  remained  was  the  rector  of  All 
Souls'. 

"  I  must  see  Mr.  Godolphin,"  said 
he. 

"  You  can  see  him,  sir,  of  course," 
was  Mr.  Hurde's  answer.  Mr.  Hast- 
ings was  different  from  the  mob  just 
got  rid  of.  He  had,  so  to  say,  a  right 
of  admittance  to  the  presence  of  the 
principals  in  a  threefold  sense, — as  a 
creditor,  as  their  spiritual  pastor,  and 
as  a  near  connection,  a  right  which 
Mr.  Hurde  would  not  presume  to  dis- 
pute. 

"  Mr.  Godolphin  will  see  you,  I  am 
sure,  sir,"  he  continued,  leading  the 
way  from  the  room  towards  Thomas 
Godolphin's.  "  He  would  have  seen 
every  soul  that  asked  for  him,  of  those 
now  gone  out.  I  knew  that,  and  that's 
why  I  wouldn't  let  their  messages  be 
taken  to  him.  Where  would  have 
been  the  use,  to-day  ?" 

Thomas  Godolphin  was  sitting  alone, 
very  busily  occupied,  as  it  appeared, 
with  books.  Mr.  Hastings  cast  a 
rapid  glance  round  the  room,  but 
George  was  not  in  it. 

It  was  not  two  minutes  previously 
that  George  had  left  it,  and  Mr.  Hast- 
ings only  escaped  seeing  him  by  those 
two  minutes.  George  had  stood  there, 
condoling  with  Thomas  upon  the  un- 
toward event  of  the  day,  apparently 
as  perplexed  as  Thomas  was,  to  ac- 
count for  its  cause  ;  and  apparently  as? 
hopeful,  nay,  as  positive,  that  ample 
funds  would   be   down    ere   the   clay 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


281 


should  close,  to  apply  their  healing 
remedy. 

"  Mr.  Godolphin,  I  have  been  ask- 
ing Ilurde  for  my  money,"  were  the 
first  words  uttered  by  the  rector. 
"  Will  you  not  give  it  me  ?" 

Thomas  Godolphin  turned  his  earn- 
est dark  eyes,  terribly  sad  then,  on 
Mr.  Hastings,  a  strangely  yearning 
look  in  their  light.  "  I  wish  I  could," 
he  answered.  "But  even  were  it  a 
thing  possible  for  us  to  do,  to  give  you 
a  preference  over  others,  it  is  not  in 
our  power.  All  the  funds  in  hand  are 
paid  out." 

The  rector  did  not  go  over  the  old 
ground  of  argument,  as  he  had  to  Mr. 
Hurde, — that  it  was  unfair  to  give  the 
earlier  comers  preference.  It  would 
answer  no  end  now  ;  and  he  was,  be- 
sides, aware  that  he  might  have  been 
among  those  earlier  applicants,  but 
for  some  cross-grained  fate,  which  had 
taken  him  out  of  the  way  to  the  Pol- 
lard cottages,  and  restrained  him  from 
speaking  to  Isaac,  when  he  saw  him 
fly  past  Whether  Mr.  Hastings  would 
have  got  his  nine  thousand  pounds  is 
another  matter.  More  especially  if — 
as  had  been  asserted  by  Mr.  Hurde — 
the  fact  of  the  payment  did  not  ap- 
pear in  the  books. 

"Where  is  George?"  asked  Mr. 
Hastings. 

"  He  has  gone  to  the  telegraph  of- 
fice," replied  Thomas  Godolphin. 
"  There  has  been  more  than  time  for 
answers  to  arrive — to  be  brought  here 
— since  our  telegrams  went  up. 
George  grew  impatient,  and  is  gone 
to  the  station." 

"  I  wish  to  ask  him  how  he  could  so 
have  deceived  me,"  resumed  the  rec- 
tor. "He  assui'ed  me  but  yesterday, 
as  it  were,  that  the  bank  was  perfectly 
safe." 

"As  he  no  doubt  thought.  Noth- 
ing would  have  been  the  matter,  but 
for  this  run.  There's  quite  a  panic  in 
Prior's  Ash,  I  am  told  ;  but  what  can 
have  caused  it,  I  know  not.  A  deed 
of  value  belonging  to  Lord  Averil 
has  been  lost  or  mislaid,  and  the  re- 
port of  that  may  have  got  about ;  but 
why  it  should  have  caused  this  fear  is 


to  me  utterly  incomprehensible.  I 
would  have  assured  you  myself  yes- 
terday, had  you  asked  me,  that  we 
were  perfectly  safe  and  solvent.  That 
we  are  so  still  will  be  proved  on  Mon- 
day morning." 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Hastings  bent 
forward  his  head.  "  It  would  be 
worse  than  ruin  to  me,  Mr.  Godolphin. 
I  should  be  held  responsible  for  the 
Chisholm's  money, — should  be  called 
upon  to  refund  it:  and  I  have  no 
means  of  doing  so.  I  dare  not  con- 
template the  position." 

"  What  are  you  talking  of?"  asked 
Thomas  Godolphin.  "  I  do  not  under- 
stand. We  hold  no  money  belonging 
to  the  Chisholms." 

"  Indeed  you  do,"  was  the  reply. 
"  You  had  it  all.  I  paid  in  the 
proceeds  of  the  sale,  nine  thousand 
and  forty-five  pounds." 

Mr.  Godolphin  paused  at  the  asser- 
tion, looking  at  the  rector,  somewhat 
in  the  manner  that  his  head-clerk  had 
clone.  "  When  did  you  pay  it  in  ?" 
he  inquired. 

"  A  few  days  ago.  I  brought  it  in 
the  evening,  after  banking-hours. 
Brierly  came  over  from  Binham  and 
paid  it  to  me,  and  I  brought  it  here 
at  once.  It  was  a  large  sum  to  keep 
in  the  house.  As  things  have  turned 
out,  I  wish  I  had  kept  it,"  concluded 
the  rector,  speaking  plainly. 

"Paid  it  to  George?" 

"  Yes.  Maria  was  present.  I  have 
his  receipt  for  it,  Mr.  Godolphin," 
added  the  rector.  "  You  almost  appear 
to  doubt  the  fact, — as  Hurde  did, 
when  I  spoke  to  him  just  now.  He 
said  it  did  not  appear  in  the  books." 

"  Neither  does  it,"  replied  Thomas 
Godolphin.  "But  I  do  not  doubt 
you,  now  you  tell  me  of  the  trans- 
action. George  must  have  omitted  to 
enter  it." 

That  "  omission"  began  to  work  in 
the  minds  of  both,  more  than  either 
cared  to  tell.  Thomas  Godolphin  was 
marvelling  at  his  brother's  reprehensi- 
ble carelessness :  the  rector  of  All 
Souls'  was  beginning  to  wonder 
whether  "carelessness"  was  the  deep- 
est sin  about  to  be  laid   open  in  the 


282 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT 


conduct  of  George  Godolphin.  Very 
unpleasant  doubts,  he  could  scarcely 
tell  why,  were  rising  up  within  him. 
His  keen  eve  searched  the  countenance 
of  Thomas  Godolphin  ;  but  he  read 
nothing  there  to  confirm  his  doubts. 
On  the  contrary,  that  countenance, 
save  for  the  great  sorrow  and  vexation 
upon  it,  was,  as  it  ever  was,  clear  and 
open  as  the  day.  ~Not  yet,  not  cpiite 
yet,  had  the  honest  faith  of  years,  re- 
posed by  Thomas  Godolphin  in  his 
brother,  been  shaken.  Very,  very 
soon  was  it  to  come :  not  the  faith  to 
be  simply  shaken,  but  rudely  destroy- 
ed,— blasted  forever,  like  a  tree  torn 
up  by  the  lightning. 

It  was  of  no  use  for  Mr.  Hastings 
to  remain.  All  the  satisfaction  to  be 
obtained  was — the  confidently  ex- 
pressed hope  that  Monday  would  set 
things  straight.  "  It  would  be  utter 
ruin  to  me,  you  know,"  he  said,  as  he 
rose. 

"  It  would  be  ruin  to  numbers,"  re- 
plied Thomas  Godolphin.  "  I  pray 
you,  do  not  glance  at  any  thing  so 
terrible.  There  is  no  cause  for  it; 
there  is  not  indeed  :  our  resources  are 
ample.  I  can  only  say  that  I  should 
wish  I  had  died  long  ago,  rather  than 
have  lived  to  witness  such  ruin  brought 
upon  others  through  us." 

Lord  Averil  was  asking  to  see 
Thomas  Godolphin,  and  entered  his 
presence  as  Mr.  Hastings  left  it.  He 
came  in,  all  impulse.  It  appeared 
that  he  had  gone  for  a  ride  that  morn- 
ing after  breakfast,  and  knew  nothing 
of  the  tragedy  then  being  enacted  in 
the  town.  I)o  you  think  the  word  too 
strong  a  one — tragedy  ?  Wait  and 
see  its  effects.  In  passing  the  bank 
on  his  return,  Lord  Averil  saw  the 
shutters  up.  In  the  moment's  shock, 
his  fears  flew  to  Thomas  Godolphin. 
He  forgot  that  the  death,  even  of  the 
principal,  would  not  cause  the  closing 
of  a  bank  for  business.  Lord  Averil, 
a  peer,  having  nothing  to  do  with 
business  and  its  ways,  may  have  been 
excused  the  mistake. 

He  pulled  short  up,  and  sat  staring 
at  the  bank,  his  heart  beating,  his  face 
growing  hot.     But  the  previous  day 


he  had  seen  Thomas  Godolphin  in 
health  (comparatively  speaking)  and 
life  ;  and  now — could  he  be  dead  ? 
Casting  his  eyes  on  the  stragglers 
gathered  on  the  pavement  before  the 
banking-doors, — an  unusual  number 
of  stragglers,  though  Lord  Averil  was 
too  much  occupied  with  other  thoughts 
to  take  note  of  the  fact, — he  leaned 
down  and  addressed  one  of  them. 
It  happened  to  be  Rutt,  the  lawyer, 
who  in  passing  had  stopped  to  talk 
with  the  groups  gathered  there. 
Why  did  groups  gather  there  ?  The 
bank  was  hermetically  sealed  for  the 
rest  of  the  day,  nothing  to  be  obtained 
from  its  aspect  but  blank  solid  walls 
and  a  blank  solid  door.  What  good 
did  it  do  people  to  halt  there  and  stare 
at  it  ?  What  good  does  it  do  them 
to  halt  before  a  house  where  mur- 
der has  been  committed,  and  stare  at 
that  ? 

The  Viscount  Averil  bent  from  his 
horse  to  Rutt  the  lawyer.  "  What 
has  happened  ?  Is  Mr.  Godolphin 
dead  ?" 

"  It  is  not  that,  my  lord.  The  bank 
has  stopped." 

"  The  —  bank  —  has stopped  ?" 

repeated  Lord  Averil,  making  a  pause 
before  each  word,  in  his  astonishment, 
and  a  greater  pause  before  the  last. 

"  Half  an  hour  ago,  my  lord.  There 
has  been  a  run  upon  it  this  morning  ; 
and,  now  that  they  have  paid  out 
all  their  funds,  they  are  obliged  to 
stop. " 

Lord  Averil  could  not  recover  his 
consternation.  "  What  occasioned  the 
run  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Well — your  lordship  must  under- 
stand that  rumors  got  abroad.  I 
heard  them,  days  ago.  Some  say, 
now,  that  they  had  no  foundation,  and 
that  the  bank  will  resume  business  on 
Monday  as  usual,  when  remittances 
arrive.  The  telegraph  has  been  at 
work  pretty  well  for  the  house  the  last 
hour,  or  so,"  concluded  Mr.  Rutt. 

Lord  Averil  leaped  from  his  horse, 
gave  it  to  a  lad  to  hold,  and  went 
round  to  the  private  door.  Thence 
he  was  admitted,  as  you  have  seen,  to 
the  presence    of  Thomas  Godolphin. 


THE     SHADOW     OF     ASIILYDYAT. 


283 


Not  of  his  own  loss  had  he  gone  to 
speak — the  sixteen  thousand  pounds 
involved  in  the  disappearance  of  the 
deeds,  and  which,  if  the  bank  ceased 
its  payments,  might  never  be  refunded 
to  him.  No.  Although  he  saw  the 
premises  closed,  and  heard  that  the 
bank  had  stopped,  not  a  doubt  crossed 
Lord  Averil  of  its  real  stability.  That 
the  run  upon  it  had  caused  its  tem- 
porary suspension,  and  that  all  would 
be  made  right  on  the  Monday,  as 
Mr.  Rutt  had  suggested,  he  fully 
believed. 

"  I  never  heard  of  it,  until  this  mo- 
ment," he  impulsively  cried,  clasping 
the  hand  of  Thomas  Godolphin.  "  In 
returning  now  from  a  ride,  I  saw  the 
shutters  closed,  and  learned  what  had 
happened.  There  has  been  a  run  upon 
the  bank,  I  understand." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Thomas,  in  a  sub- 
dued tone,  that  told  of  mental  pain. 
"  It  is  a  very  untoward  thing." 

"  But  what  induced  it  ?" 

"  I  cannot  imagine.  Unless  it  was 
the  rumor,  which  no  doubt  got  spread, 
of  the  loss  of  your  deed.  I  suppose 
it  was  that :  magnified  in  the  telling, 
possibly,  into  the  loss  of  half  the 
coffers  of  the  bank.  Panics  have  arisen 
from  much  slighter  causes  ;  as  those 
versed  in  the  money  market  could  tell 
you." 

"  But  how  foolish  people  must  be  !" 

"  When  a  panic  arises,  people  are 
not  themselves,"  remarked  Thomas 
Godolphin.  "  One  catches  up  the  fear 
from  another,  like  they  catch  an  epi- 
demic. I  wish  our  friends  and  cus- 
tomers had  had  more  confidence  in  us. 
But  I  cannot  blame  them." 

"  They  are  saying,  outside,  that 
business  will  be  resumed." 

"  Yes.  As  soon  as  we  can  get  re- 
mittances down.  Sunday  intervenes, 
and  of  course  nothing  can  be  done 
until  Monday." 

"  Well  now,  my  friend,  can  I  help 
you  ?"  rejoined  Lord  Averil.  "  I  am 
a  richer  man  than  the  world  gives  me 
credit  for ;  owing  to  the  inexpensive 
life  I  have  led,  since  that  one  false 
step  of  mine,  when  barely  out  of  my 
teens.     I  will  give  you  my  signature 


to  any  amount.  If  you  can  contrive 
to  let  it  be  known,  it  may  bring  the 
people  to  their  senses." 

Thomas  Godolphin's  generous  spirit 
opened  to  the  proof  of  confidence  :  it 
shone  forth  from  his  epiiet  dark  eyes 
as  he  gazed  at  Lord  Averil. 

"  Thank  you  sincerely  for  the  kind- 
ness. I  shall  gratefully  remember  it 
to  the  last  day  of  my  life.  An  hour 
or  two  ago,  I  do  not  know  but  I  might 
have  availed  myself  of  it ;  as  it  is,  it 
is  too  late.  The  bank  is  closed  for  the 
day,  and  nothing  more,  good  or  bad, 
can  be  done  until  Monday  morning. 
Long  before  that,  I  expect  assistance 
will  have  arrived." 

"  Yery  well.  But  if  you  want  fur- 
ther assistance,  you  know  where  to 
come  for  it,"  concluded  Lord  Averil. 
"  I  shall  be  in  Prior's  Ash.  Do  you 
know,"  he  continued,  in  a  musing  sort 
of  tone,  "  since  I  renounced  that  pro- 
posed sea  expedition,  I  have  begun  to 
feel  more  like  a  homeless  man  than  I 
ever  yet  did.  If  there  were  a  desirable 
place  for  sale  in  this  neighborhood,  I 
am  not  sure  but  I  should  purchase  it, 
and  settle  down." 

Thomas  Godolphin  gave  but  a  slight 
answer.  His  own  business  was  enough 
for  him  to  think  of  for  one  day.  Lord 
Averil  suddenly  remembered  this,  and 
said  something  to  the  effect,  but  he 
did  not  yet  rise  to  go.  Surely  he  could 
not  at  that  moment  be  contemplating 
the  speaking  to  Mr.  Godolphin  about 
Cecil !  Another  minute  and  Mr. 
Hurde  had  come  into  the  room,  bear- 
ing a  telegraphic  dispatch  in  his  hand. 

"  Has  Mr.  George  brought  this  ?" 
Thomas  inquired,  as  he  took  it. 

"  No,  sir.  It  came  by  the  regular 
messenger."  - 

"  George  must  have  missed  him, 
then,"  was  Thomas  Godolphin's  men- 
tal comment. 

He  opened  the  paper.  He  cast  his 
eyes  over  the  contents.  It  was  a  short 
message  ;  but  a  few  words  in  it,  sim- 
ple and  easy  to  comprehend ;  but 
Thomas  Godolphin  apparently  could 
not  comprehend  it.  Such  at  least  was 
the  impression  conveyed  to  Lord  Av- 
eril   and    Mr.    Hurde.      Both    were 


284 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


watching  him,  though  without  motive. 
The  clerk  waited  for  any  orders  there 
might  be  :  Lord  Averil  sat  on,  as  he 
had  been  sitting.  Thomas  Godolphin 
read  it  three  times,  and  then  glanced 
up  at  Mr.  Hurde. 

"  This  cannot  be  for  us,"  he  re- 
marked. "  Some  mistake  must  have 
been  made.  Some  confusion,  possibly, 
in  the  telegraph  office  in  town  ;  and 
the  message,  intended  for  us,  has  gone 
elsewhere." 

"  That  could  hardly  be,  sir,"  was 
Mr.  Hurde's  reply. 

In  good  truth,  Thomas  Godolphin 
hiinself  thought  it  could  hardly  be. 
But — if  the  message  had  come  right 
— what  did  it  mean  ?  Mr.  Hurde, 
racking  his  brains  to  conjecture  the 
nature  of  the  message  that  was  so 
evidently  disturbing  his  master,  con- 
trived to  catch  sight  of  two  or  three 
words  at  the  tail :  and  they  seemed 
to  convey  some  ominous  notion  that 
there  were  no  funds  to  be  forthcoming. 

Thomas  Godolphin  was  disturbed  ; 
and  in  no  measured  degree.  His 
hands  grew  cold  and  his  brow  moist, 
as  he  gazed  at  the  dispatch  in  its  every 
corner.  According  to  its  address,  it 
was  meant  for  their  house,  and  in 
answer  to  one  of  the  dispatches  he 
had  sent  up  that  morning.  But — its 
contents  !  Surely  they  could  not  be 
addressed  to  the  good  old  house  of 
Godolphin,  Crosse,  and  Godolphin  ! 

A  moment  or  two  of  wavering  hesi- 
tation and  then  he  drew  to  him  a 
sheet  of  paper,  wrote  a  few  words, 
and  folded  it.  "  Take  this  yourself 
with  all  speed  to  the  telegraph  sta- 
tion," he  said  to  Mr.  Hurde.  "  Send 
the  message  up  at  once,  and  wait 
there  for  the  answer.  It  will  not  be 
long  in  coming.  And  if  you  meet 
Mr.  George,  tell  him  I  wish  to  see 
him." 

"And  now  I  dare  say  you  will  be 
glad  to  get  rid  of  me,"  remarked 
Lord  Averil,  as  Mr.  Hurde  hastened 
out.  "  This  is  not  a  day  to  intrude 
upon  you  for  long :  and  I  dare  say 
the  fellow  to  whom  I  entrusted  my 
horse  is  thinking  something  of  the 
game." 


He  shook  hands  cordially,  and  went 
away,  leaving  Thomas  Godolphin  to 
battle  with  his  care  alone.  Ah  me  ! 
no  human  aid,  henceforth,  could  help 
him,  by  so  much  as  a  passing  word, 
with  the  terrible  battle  already  set  in. 
God  alone,  who  had  been  with  Thomas 
Godolphin  through  life,  could  whisper 
to  him  a  word  of  comfort,  or  shed 
down  a  few  drops  of  sustaining  balm, 
so  that  he  might  battle  through,  and 
bear.  That  God  had  been  with  him, 
in  the  midst  of  the  deep  sorrows  He 
had  seen  fit  to  cast  upon  him,  Thomas 
knew :  he  knew  that  He  would  be 
with  him  always,  even  unto  the  end. 

"  You  had  better  accept  my  offer  of 
assistance,"  Lord  Averil  turned  back 
to  say. 

"No,"  broke  from  Thomas  Godol- 
phin in  a  sharp  tone  of  pain,  very 
different  from  the  calm,  if  grateful, 
answer  he  had  previously  given  to 
the  same  proposition.  "  What  sort 
of  justice  would  it  be  if  I  robbed  you 
to  pay  the  claims  of  others  ?" 

"  You  can  refund  to  me  when  the 
panic's  over,"  returned  the  viscount, 
somewhat  surprised  at  the  nature  of 
the  reply. 

"Yes.  But — but — it  might  be  a 
risk,"  was  the  rejoinder,  given  with  un- 
wonted hesitation.  "  In  a  crisis,  such 
as  this,  it  is,  I  believe,  impossible  to 
foresee  what  the  end  may  be.  Thank 
you  greatly,  Averil,  all  the  same." 

Mr.  Hurde  was  not  very  long  be- 
fore he  returned,  bringing  with  him 
an  answer  to  the  last  message. .  Moist- 
er  and  moister  became  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin's  brow  as  he  read  it :  colder 
and  colder  grew  his  hand.  It  ap- 
peared to  be  but  a  confirmation  of  the 
one  received  before. 

"  I  cannot  understand  this,"  he 
murmured. 

Mr.  Hurde  stood  by.  That  some 
ominous  fear  had  arisen,  he  saw.  He 
was  an  old  and  faithful  servant  of  the 
house,  entirely  devoted  to  its  interests. 
His  master  said  a  few  words  of  ex- 
planation to  him. 

They  aroused  Mr.  Hurde's  fears. 
Had  some  deep-laid  treachery  been  at 
work? — some  comprehensive  scheme 


T  PI  E      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


285 


of  duplicity  been  enacting  for  some 
time  past,  making  a  bankrupt  house 
appear  to  be  still  a  flourishing  one  ? 
If  so,  it  could  only  have  been  done 
by  falsifying  the  books :  and  that 
could  only  have  been  done  by  George 
Godolpbin. 

Mr.  Hurde  did  not  dare  to  give 
vent  to  his  thoughts.  Indeed,  he  did 
not  seriously  contemplate  that  they 
could  be  types  of  the  reality.  But,  in 
the  uncertainty  created,  he  deemed 
himself  perfectly  justified  in  mention- 
ing to  Mr.  Godolphin  the  untoward 
occurrence  of  the  previous  day  ;  the 
demand  of  the  rude  man  for  money, 
and  the  unpleasant  expressions  he 
had  used  of  the  state  of  affairs  of  Mr. 
George  Godolphin.  He  was  clearing 
his  throat  to  begin  in  his  usual  slow 
fashion,  when  Mr.  Godolphin  spoke. 

"I  shall  go  to  town  by  the  first 
train,  Hurde, — the  express.  It  will 
be  through  in  half  an  hour." 

Then  Mr.  Hurde  told  his  tale.  It 
did  not  tend  to  reassure  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin. 

He  rang  the  bell.  He  caused 
George  to  be  inquired  for.  But 
George  was  not  in  the  house.  He  had 
not  been  back  since  that  errand  of  his, 
ostensibly  to  the  telegraph-office. 

Thomas  could  not  wait.  He  wrote 
a  note  to  George,  and  sealed  it.  He 
then  charged  a  servant  with  a  mes- 
sage for  Miss  Godolphin  at  Ashly- 
dyat,  gave  a  few  directions  to  Mr. 
Hurde,  proceeded  on  foot  to  the 
station  without  further  preparations, 
and  started  on  his  journey. 

Started  on  his  journey.  Strange 
doubts  and  fears  making  a  havoc  of 
his  beating  heart. 


CHAPTER  XLIY. 

BOBBING   JOAN. 

Maria  Godolphin  was  in  her  own 
pretty  sitting-room  up-stairs.  Fine 
ladies  would  have  called  it  their 
"boudoir."     Maria  did  not :  she  was 


not  given  to  be  fine.  She  had  been 
sitting  there  over  since  breakfast  ; 
had  not  yet  stirred  out  of  it,  though 
noon  had  passed,  for  she  was  very 
busy.  Not  fond  of  sewing  in  a  gen- 
eral way,  she  was  plying  her  needle 
quickly  now  :  some  fine  intricate  work 
of  braiding,  to  be  converted  into  a 
frock  for  Miss  Meta.  Maria  worked 
as  if  her  heart  were  in  it :  it  was  for 
her  child. 

The  door  was  closed,  the  window 
was  open  to  the  summer  air.  The 
scent  of  the  flowers  ascended  from  the 
garden  below,  the  gentle  hum  of  the 
insects  was  heard  as  they  sported  in 
the  sun,  the  scene  altogether  was  one 
of  entire  tranquillity.  There  was  an 
air  of  repose  about  the  room,  about 
Maria  in  her  cool,  muslin  dress,  about 
the  scene  altogether.  Who,  looking 
at  it,  would  have  suspected  the  tur- 
moil that  was  being  enacted — or  that 
had  been  enacted  so  recently — in 
another  part  of  the  house  ? 

It  is  a  positive  fact  that  Maria  knew 
nothing  yet  of  the  grievous  calamity 
which  had  fallen, — the  stoppage  of  the 
bank.  The  servants  knew  it,  fast 
enough ;  were  more  correctly  ac- 
quainted with  its  details  (to  hear 
them  speak)  than  the  bank  itself. 
They  stood  about  in  groups  and  talked 
in  whispers,  letting  the  work  go. 
But  not  one  of  them  had  presumed  to 
acquaint  their  unconscious  mistress. 
They  knew  how  entirely  ignorant  of 
it  all  she  was ;  they  felt  certain  that 
not  a  suspicion  of  any  thing  going 
wrong  had  ever  crossed  her.  In 
point  of  fact,  it  had  not  crossed  their 
own  inquisitive  selves,  and  the  fact 
had  burst  upon  them  that  morning 
like  a  thunder-clap. 

Like  a  thunder-clap  it  was  soon  to 
burst  upon  Maria.  A  few  minutes' 
respite  yet,  ere  it  should  come.  She 
certainly  had  heard  the  hall-bell,  the 
visitors'-bell,  ring  three  or  four  times, 
which  was  somewhat  unusual,  con- 
sidering that  no  message  for  her  had 
followed  upon  it.  The  ringing  of  that 
bell  in  the  daytime  generally  heralded 
guests  for  herself.  Once,  when 
Pierce  came  in,  bringing  a  small  par- 


286 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT, 


eel  for  her  from  the  bookseller's, 
Maria  had  inquired  who  it  was  that 
had  just  rung  at  the  hall-door.  Pierce 
answered  that  it  was  Lord  Averil  ; 
that  his  lordship  had  asked  to  see 
Mr.  Godolphin.  Maria  could  not  re- 
member afterwards,  when  looking 
back  on  the  circumstances  of  the  day, 
whether  or  not  it  had  occurred  to  her 
to  wonder  why  Lord  Averil  should 
come  to  the  private  door,  when  his 
visit  was  to  the  bank  and  Thomas 
Godolphin.  Pierce  ventured  not  an- 
other word.  He  never  said,  "  Ma'am, 
there's  something  the  matter,  I'm 
afraid  ;  there's  a  run  upon  the  bank." 
He  just  put  the  parcel  down  and 
sidled  off,  very  much  after  the  man- 
ner of  one  who  is  afraid  of  being- 
asked  questions. 

And  yet  the  man  in  his  sober 
judgment  believed  that  there  was  lit- 
tle danger  of  any  inconvenient  ques- 
tions being  put  by  his  mistress.  There 
was  none.  Of  all  people  living,  none 
were  so  completely  unconscious  that 
any  thing  wrong  was  looming,  as 
Mrs.  George  Godolphin.  If  there 
was  one  house  in  the  kingdom  more 
safe,  more  staid,  more  solid  than 
other  houses,  she  believed  it  to  be 
theirs.  Yes,  it  was  a  notable  fact, 
that  Maria,  sitting  there  so  serenely 
tranquil,  knew  nothing  of  what  was 
stirring  Prior's  Ash,  from  one  end 
of  it  to  the  other,  to  the  highest  pitch 
of  excitement.  Perhaps  it  would  not 
be  too  much  to  say  that  she  was  the 
last  person  in  it  whom  the  news 
reached. 

The  work — her  work,  that  she  held 
in  her  hand — was  approaching  com- 
pletion, and  she  looked  at  it  with  fond 
eyes.  She  had  been  two  or  three 
weeks  over  it,  sitting  steadily  to  it 
several  of  the  days.  It  was  very 
pretty,  certainly, — a  new  sort  of  work 
just  come  up,  done  with  a  new  sort 
of  braid  ;  and  would,  beyond  question, 
look  charming  on  Miss  Meta  when 
distended  out  as  a  balloon,  like  it  was 
the  fashion  of  that  young  lady's  short 
petticoats  to  be  distended.  Now  and 
then  Maria  would  be  visited  with 
doubtful  visons  as  to  whether  the  thing 


would  "  wash."  That  is,  to  wash 
and  look  as  Avell  afterwards  as  it  did 
now.  She  could  only  hope  for  the 
best,  and  that  Miss  Meta  would  be 
upon  her  good  behaviour  when  wear- 
ing it,  and  not  blacken  it  beyond  re- 
demption the  first  time  it  was  on. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  have  enough  braid," 
deliberated  Maria,  comparing  the 
small  piece  yet  remaining  to  do  with 
the  braid  in  hand.  "  I  wish  I  had 
told  Margery  to  bring  me  in  another 
piece  !  she  will  be  passing  the  shop. 
I  must  send,  if  I  find  it  running  short. 
If  I  have  no  hindrances  to-day,  I 
shall  finish  it." 

One  hindrance  occurred  almost  as 
Maria  was  speaking, — the  entrance 
of  her  husband.  With  him  in  the 
room  she  was  continually  looking  off 
to  talk,  if  she  did  not  entirely  lay  it 
down  ;  altogether  she  did  not  get  on 
so  fast  as  when  alone.  He  had  just 
come  in  from  that  excursion  to  the 
telegraph-office.  Bad  he  been  there  ? 
Or  had  his  proclaimed  visit  been  but 
a  plea  ostensibly  set  forth,  an  excuse 
to  get  out  of  his  brother's  presence, 
away  from  that  troubled  scene,  the 
bank  ? 

There  was  no  knowing.  George 
never  said,  then  or  afterwards.  He 
never  said  whether  his  return  now 
was  the  result  of  his  having  acci- 
dentally seen  his  brother  at  a  distance, 
walking  along  at  a  quick  pace.  He 
came  in  by  the  hall-door  (there  was 
no  other  way  open,  to-day),  letting 
himself  in  with  his  latch-key.  Mr. 
Hurde  was  there  yet,  posting,  or 
doing  something  or  other  to  a  pile 
of  books. 

"  Is  Mr.  Godolphin  gone  for  the 
day  ?"  asked  George. 

"  Mr.  Godolphin's  gone  to  London, 
sir." 

"  To  London  !"  echoed  George,  in 
his  surprise.  "What  is  taking  him 
there  ?" 

"  Some  queer  messages  have  come 
down  by  telegraph,"  returned  Mr. 
Hurde,  pushing  his  spectacles  up,  and 
looking  George  full  in  the  face.  "  Mr. 
Godolphin  could  not  understand  them, 
and  he  is  gone  to  town." 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


287 


George  did  not  make  any  observa- 
tion for  a  minute.  Was  he  afraid  to 
make  farther  inquiries?  ''What were 
the  messages  ?"  lie  presently  asked. 

"  Mr.  Godolphin  did  not  show  them 
to  me,  sir,"  was  the  answer,  spoken, 
or  George  fancied  it,  in  a  curt  tone. 
"  He  said  enough  to  tell  me  that  there 
appeared  to  be  some  great  cause  for 
disquiet,  —  and  he  has  gone  to  see 
about  it.  He  left  a  note  in  the  par- 
lor, sir,  for  you. 

Mr.  Hurde  buried  his  face  over  his 
books  again, — a  genteel  hint,  perhaps, 
that  he  wished  the  colloquy  to  end, — 
if  his  master  would  be  pleased  to  take 
it.  George  entered  the  parlor  and 
caught  up  the  note. 

"  '  Be  at  home  to  callers ;  answer 
all  inquiries,'  "  repeated  he,  reciting 
the  last  words  of  the  note.  "  I  wish 
Thomas  may  get  it !  Now  that  the 
explosion  has  come,  Prior's  Ash  is  no 
place  for  me." 

Many  and  many  a  day  had  there  in- 
truded into  George  Godolphin's  mind 
a  vision  of  this  very  time,  when  the 
"  explosion"  should  have  "  come."  He 
had  never  dwelt  upon  it.  He  had 
driven  it  away  from  him  to  the  ut- 
most of  his  power.  Perhaps  it  is  not 
in  the  nature  of  those,  whose  course 
of  conduct  is  such  as  to  bring  down 
these  explosions  as  a  natural  sequence, 
to  anticipate  with  uncomfortable  mi- 
nuteness the  period  of  their  arrival, 
or  their  particular  manner  of  meeting 
it.  Certainly  George  Godolphin  had 
not :  but  there  had  been  ever  an  un- 
der-current of  conviction  lying  dor- 
mant in  his  heart,  that  he  should  not 
face  it  in  person.  When  the  brunt  of 
the  scandal  was  over,  then  he  might 
return  to  home  and  Prior's  Ash  :  but 
he  would  not  wait  there  to  be  present 
at  its  fall. 

He  crushed  Thomas  Godolphin's 
note  into  his  pocket,  and  stood  up- 
right on  the  hearth-rug  to  think.  He 
knew  that,  if  treated  according  to  his 
deserts,  that  would  be  the  last  friendly 
note  written  him  by  his  brother  for 
many  a  day  to  come.  Thomas  was 
then  being  whirled  on  his  way  to  the 
fall  knowledge  of  his,  George's,  delin- 


quency :  or,  if  not  to  the  full  knowl- 
edge, which  perhaps  could  only  be 
unfolded  by  degrees,  like  we  turn  the 
pages  of  a  book,  to  quite  enough  of  it. 
It  was  time  for  him  to  be  off  now. 
If  inquisitive  callers  must  be  seen, 
Hurde  could  see  them. 

Conscience  makes  cowards  of  us 
all, — a  saying,  not  more  trite  than 
true.  Very  absurd  cowards  it  makes 
of  us  now  and  then.  As  George  Go- 
dolphin stood  there,  revolving  the  pros 
and  cons  of  his  getting  away,  the  ways 
and  means  of  his  departure,  a  thought 
flashed  into  his  mind  of  whether  he 
should  be  allowed  to  depart  if  an 
inkling  of  his  exodus  got  wind.  It 
actually  did, — unfounded  as  was  any 
cause  for  it.  The  fear  came  from  his 
lively  conscience  ;  but  from  nothing 
else.  He  might  be  seen  at  the  rail- 
way station,  and  stopped  :  he  might, — 
"  Tush  !"  interrupted  George,  angrily, 
coming  out  of  the  foolish  fear  and  re- 
turning into  his  sober  senses.  "  Peo- 
ple here  know  nothing  yet  beyond 
the  bare  fact  that  the  bank  has  sus- 
pended payment.  They  can't  stop  a 
man  for  that." 

But,  how  about  ways  and  means  ? 
Ay,  that  was  more  necessary  to  be 
considered.  The  money  in  George's 
pockets  amounted — I  am  telling  you 
truth — tothree-and-sixpence,  and  two- 
pence in  halfpence.  With  all  his  faults 
he  was  open-hearted,  open-handed. 
He  had  been  wreak,  imprudent,  ex- 
travagant ;  he  had  been  enacting  a 
course  of  deceit  to  his  brother  and  to 
the  world,  forced  to  it  (he  would  have 
told  you)  by  his  great  need  and  his 
great  dread ;  he  had  made  use  of  other 
men's  property ;  he  had,  in  short,  en- 
tirely violated  those  good  rules  that 
public  lamentation  is  made  for  every 
Sunday, — he  had  left  undone  those 
things  that  he  ought  to  have  done, 
and  he  had  done  those  things  that  he 
ought  not  to  have  done  :  but  it  was 
not  for  himself  (in  one  sense)  that  he 
had  done  this.  It  was  not  for  him- 
self, selfishly.  He  had  not  made  a 
private  purse  for  the  evil  day,  or  put 
by  money  to  serve  his  wants  when 
other  moneys  should  fail.    As  long  as 


288 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


he  had  the  money  he  had  spent  it, — 
whether  in  paying  claims,  or  in  making 
charming  presents  to  friends,  as  to 
Charlotte  Pain,  for  instance, — elegant 
little  trifles  that  of  course  cost  nothing, 
or  next  to  it ;  or  in  new  dolls  for 
Meta ;  or  in  giving  a  sovereign  to 
some  poor,  broken-down  tradesman, 
who  wanted  to  get  upon  his  legs 
again.  In  one  way  or  other  the 
money  had  been  spent ;  not  a  single 
shilling  had  George  hoarded  up  ;  so, 
in  that  sense,  he  had  been  neither 
selfish  nor  dishonest. 

And,  now  that  the  crash  had  come, 
he  was  without  means.  He  had  not 
so  much  as  the  fare  in  his  pocket  that 
would  suffice  to  convey  him  away  out 
of  the  scene  of  turmoil  that  the  next 
week  would  inevitably  bring  forth. 
The  bank-funds  were  likewise  ex- 
hausted ;  so  that  he  had  not  them  to 
turn  to.  But,  get  away  he  must : 
and,  it  seemed  to  him,  the  sooner  the 
better. 

He  came  forth  through  the  sepa- 
rating-door  between  the  bank  and  the 
dwelling,  and  entered  the  dining- 
room.  The  tray  was  laid  for  luncheon, 
and  for  Meta's  dinner :  but  nobody 
was  in  the  room.  '  He  went  up-stairs 
to  Maria's  sitting-room.  She  was 
there,  quietly  at  work  :  and  she  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  glad  smile  of  wel- 
come. Her  attitude  of  repose,  her 
employment,  the  expression  of  calm 
happiness  pervading  her  countenance, 
told  George  that  she  was  as  yet  in 
ignorance. 

"What  money  have  you  in  your 
purse,  Maria  ?"  asked  he,  speaking 
carelessly. 

Maria  laughed.  "Why  none,"  she 
answered,  quite  in  a  merry  accent, — 
"  or,  as  good  as  none.  I  have  been 
telling  you  ever  so  long,  George,  that 
I  must  have  some  money ;  and  I 
must.  A  good  deal  I  mean, — to  pay 
my  housekeeping  bills." 

"Just  see  what  you  have  got,"  re- 
turned George.  "  I  want  to  borrow 
it," 

Maria  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket, 
and  then  found  that  her  purse  was 


in  her  desk.     She  gave  the  keys  to 
George,  and  asked  him  to  unlock  it. 

The  purse  was  in  a  small  compart- 
ment, lying  on  a  ten-pound  note.  In 
the  purse  there  proved  to  be  a  sove- 
reign and  seven  shillings.  George 
put  the  money  and  the  purse  back 
again,  and  took  up  the  note. 

"  You  sly  girl  ?"  cried  he,  in  a 
mock-serious  tone.  "  To  tell  me  you 
had  no  money !  What  special  cadeau 
is  this  put  by  for  ?  A  golden  chain 
for  Meta  ?" 

"  That  is  not  mine,  George.  It  is 
old  Dame  Bond's.  I  told  you  about 
it,  if  you  remember." 

"I'll  take  this,"  said  George,  trans- 
ferring the  note  to  his  pocket. 

"  Oh,  no,  George,  don't  take  that !" 
exclaimed  Maria.  "She  may  be 
coming  for  it  any  hour.  I  promised 
to  return  it  to  her  whenever  she  asked 
for  it." 

"  My  dear,  you  shall  have  it  back 
again.     She  won't  come  to-day." 

"  Why  can  you  not  get  a  note  from 
the  bank,  instead  of  taking  that  ?" 

George  made  no  answer.  He  turned 
into  his  bedroom.  Maria  thought 
nothing  of  the  omission  :  she  supposed 
his  mind  to  be  preoccupied.  In  point 
of  fact,  she  thought  little  of  his  taking 
the  note.  With  coffers  full  (as  she 
supposed)  to  turn  to,  the  borrowing 
of  a  ten-pound  note  seemed  an  affair 
of  no  moment. 

She  sat  on  about  ten  minutes,  hard 
at  work.  George  remained  in  his  bed- 
room, occupied  (as  it  appeared  to  Ma- 
ria) in  opening  and  shutting  various 
drawers.  Somewhat  curious  as  to 
what  he  could  be  doing,  she  at  length 
rose  from  her  seat  and  looked  in.  He 
was  packing  a  portmanteau. 

"Are  you  going  out,  George  ?."  she 
exclaimed,  in  surprise. 

"  For  a  few  days.  Business  is  call- 
ing me  to  town.  Look  here,  Maria. 
I  shall  take  nothing  with  me  beyond 
my  small  black-leather  hand-case;  but 
you  send  this  by  one  of  the  men  to  the 
station  to-nierht.     It  must  come  after 


me. 


"What  a  very  sudden  determina- 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T  . 


289 


tion,  George  !"  she  cried.  "You  did 
not  say  any  thing  this  morning." 

"  I  did  not  know  then  that  I  should 
have  to  go.  Don't  look  sad,  child.  I 
shan't  be  long  away." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  al- 
ways going  away  now,  George,"  she 
observed,  her  tone  as  sad  as  her 
l<»oks. 

"Business  must  be  attended  to," 
responded  George,  shaking  out  a  coat 
that  he  was  about  to  fold.  "I  don't 
in  the  least  covet  going,  I  assure  you, 
Maria." 

What  more  she  would  have  said 
was  interrupted  by  a  noise.  Some- 
body had  entered  the  sitting-room  with 
much  commotion.  Maria  returned  to 
it,  and  saw  Meta  and  Margery. 

Meta  had  been  the  whole  morning 
long  in  the  hay-field.  Not  the  par- 
ticular hay-field  mentioned  previously ; 
that  one  was  clear  of  hay  now  ;  but  to 
some  other  hay-field,  whose  cocks 
were  in  full  bloom, — if  such  an  expres- 
sion may  be  used  with  regard  to  hay. 
There  were  few  things  Miss  Meta 
liked  so  much  as  a  roll  in  the  hay, — 
and,  so  long  as  cocks  were  to  be  found 
in  the  neighborhood,  Margery  would 
be  coaxed  over  to  take  her  to  them. 
Margery  did  not  particularly  dislike  it 
herself.  Margery's  rolling-days  were 
over  ;  but,  seated  at  the  foot  of  one  of 
the  cocks,  her  knitting  in  her  hand, 
and  the  child  in  view,  Margery  found 
the  time  pass  agreeably  enough.  As 
she  had,  on  this  day :  and  the  best 
proof  of  it  was,  that  she  had  stayed  be- 
yond her  time.  Miss  Meta's  dinner 
was  waiting. 

Miss  Meta  was  probably  aware  of 
the  fact  by  sundry  inward  warnings. 
She  had  gone  flying  into  her  mamma's 
sitting- room,  tugging  at  the  strings  of 
her  hat,  which  had  got  into  a  knot. 
Margery  had  flown  in,  nearly  as  fast ; 
certainly  in  greater  exeitement. 

"  Is  it  true,  ma'am  ?"  she  gasped 
out,  the  moment  she  saw  Maria. 

"  Is  what  true  ?"  inquired  Maria. 

"  That  the  bank  has  broke.     When 

I  saw  the  shutters  up,  and  the  door 

barred,  for  all  the  world  as  if  every- 

bodv  in  the  house  was  dead,  von  mierht 

18 


have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather. 
There's  quite  a  crowd  round;  and 
one  of  'em  told  me  the  bank  bail 
broke." 

George  came  out  of  his  bedroom. 
"  Take  this  child  to  the  nursery,  and 
get  her  ready  for  her  dinner,"  said  he, 
in  the  quick,  decisive,  haughty  manner 
that  he  now  and  then  used,  though 
rarely  to  Margery. 

Margery  withdrew  with  the  child, 
and  George  looked  at  his  wife.  Slit- 
was  standing  in  perplexity  ;  half 
aghast,  half  in  disbelief;  and  she 
turned  her  questioning  eyes  on  George. 

But  for  those  words  of  Margery's, 
whose  sound  had  penetrated  to  his' 
bedroom,  would  he  have  said  any 
thing  to  Maria  before  his  departure  ? 
It  must  remain  a  question.  Now  he 
had  no  other  resource. 

"  The  fact  is,  Maria,  we  have  had 
a  run  upon  the  bank  this  morning, — 
have  been  compelled  to  suspend  pay- 
ment. Forthe  present,"  added  George, 
vouchsafing  to  Maria  the  hopeful  view 
of  the  case  which  his  brother,  in  his 
ignorance,  took. 

She  did  not  answer.  She  felt  too 
much  dismayed.  Perhaps,  in  her 
mind's  astonished  confusion,  she  could 
not  yet  distinct]}-  comprehend.  George 
placed  her  in  a  chair. 

"How  scared  you  look,  child! 
There's  no  cause  for  that.  Such  things 
happen  every  day." 

"  George — George  I"  she  reiterated, 
struggling  as  it  were  for  utterance, 
"do  you  mean  that  the  bank  has 
failed  ?     I  don't  think  I  understand." 

"For  the  present.  Some  cause  or 
other,  that  we  can  none  of  us  get  to 
the  bottom  of,  induced  a  run  upon  us 
to-day." 

"A  run  ?  You  mean  that  people  all 
came  together,  wanting  to  withdraw 
their  money  ?" 

"Yes.  We  paid  as  long  as  our 
funds  held  out.    And  then  we  closed." 

She  burst  into  a  most  distressing 
flood  of  tears.  The  shock,  from  un- 
clouded prosperity — she  had  not 
known  that  that  prosperity  was  hol- 
low— to  ruin,  to  disgrace,  was  more 
than  she  could  bear  calm  1  v.     George 


290 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


felt  vexed.     It  seemed  as  if  the  tears 
reproached  him. 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  Maria,  don't 
take  on  like  that !"  he  testily  cried.  "  It 
will  blow  over;  it  will  be  all  right?" 

But  he  put  his  arm  round  her,  in 
spite  of  his  testy  words.  Maria  leaned 
her  face  upon  his  bosom,  and  sobbed 
out  her  tears  upon  it.  He  did  not 
like  the  tears  at  all ;  he  spoke  quite 
crossly  ;  and  Maria  did  her  best  to  hush 
them. 

"  What  will  be  done  ?"  she  asked, 
choking  down  some  rebellious  sobs, 
that  were  for  rising  in  spite  of  her. 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  that. 
I  have  been  obliged  to  tell  you,  because 
it  is  a  thing  that  cannot  be  concealed; 
but  it  will  not  affect  your  peace  and 
comfort,  I  hope.  There's  no  cause  for 
tears." 

"  Will  the  bank  go  on  again  ?" 

"  Thomas  is  gone  up  to  London, 
expecting  to  bring  funds  down.  In 
that  case,  it  will  open  on  Monday 
morning." 

How  could  he  tell  it  her?  Know- 
ing as  he  did  know,  and  he  alone,  that 
through  his  deep-laid  machinations 
there  were  no  longer  funds  available 
for  the  bank  or  for  Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  Need  you  go  to  London,"  she 
asked,  in  a  wailing  tone,  "  if  Thomas 
is  gone  ?     I  shall  be  left  all  alone." 

"I  must  go.    There's  no  help  for  it." 

"And  which  day  shall  you  be  back  ? 
By  Monday  ?" 

"  Not  perhaps  by  Monday.  Keep 
up  your  spirits,  Maria.  It  will  be  all 
right." 

Meta  came  bursting  in.  She  was 
going  down  to  dinner.  Was  mamma 
coming  to  her  lunch  ? 

No,  mamma  did  not  want  any. 
Margery  would  attend  to  her.  George 
picked  up  the  child  and  carried  her 
into  his  room.  In  his  drawers  he  had 
found  some  trifling  toy,  brought  home 
for  Meta  weeks  ago,  and  forgotten  to 
be  given  to  her.  It  had  lain  there 
since.  It  was  one  of  those  renowned 
articles,  rarer  now  than  they  had  used 
to  be,  called  Bobbing  Joan  George 
had  given  sixpence  for  it, — a  lady, 
with  a  black  head  and  neck  and  no 


visible  legs.  He  put  it  on  the  top  of 
the  drawers,  touched  it  and  set  it 
bobbing  at  Meta. 

She  was  all  delight ;  she  stretched 
out  her  hands  for  it  eagerly.  But 
George,  neglecting  the  toy,  sat  down 
on  a  chair,  and  clasped  the  child  in 
his  arms,  and  showered  upon  her 
more  passionately  heartfelt  embraces 
than  perhaps  he  had  ever  given  to 
living  mortal,  child  or  woman.  He 
did  not  keep  her:  the  last  long  linger- 
ing kiss  was  pressed  upon  her  rosy 
lips,  and  he  put  her  down,  handed  her 
the  toy,  and  bade  her  run  and  show  it 
to  mamma. 

Away  she  went ;  to  mamma  first, 
and  then  off  in  search  of  Margery. 
Maria  went  into  the  bedroom  to  her 
husband.  He  was  locking  the  port- 
manteau. 

"  That  is  all,  I  believe,"  he  said, 
transferring  the  keys  to  his  pocket, 
and  taking  up  the  small  hand-case. 
"  Remember  that  it  is  sent  off  by  to- 
night's train,  Maria.  I  have  addressed 
it." 

"You  are  not  going  now,  George?" 
she  said,  her  heart  seeming  to  fail  her 
strangely. 

"  Yes  I  am." 

"But there   is   no   train  yet  a 

awhile.  The  express  must  have 
passed  this  half-hour." 

"I shall  ride  over  to  Crancomb  and 
take  the  train  there,"  he  answered.  "  I 
have  some  business  in  the  place,"  ad- 
ded he,  by  way  of  stopping  any  ques- 
tions as  to  the  why  and  wherefore. 
"  Listen,  Maria.  You  need  not  men- 
tion that  I  have  gone,  until  you  see 
Thomas  on  Monday  morning.  Tell 
him.''1 

"  Shall  you  not  see  him  yourself  in 
London  ?"  she  returned.  "  Are  you 
not  going  to  meet  him  ?" 

"  I  may  miss  him  :  it  is  just  possi- 
ble," was  the  reply  of  George,  spoken 
with  all  the  candor  in  life,  just  as 
though  his  mission  to  London  was  the 
express  one  of  meeting  his  brother. 
"  If  Thomas  should  return  home  with- 
out having  seen  me,  I  mean." 

"What  am  I  to  tell  him?"  she 
asked. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


291 


"Only  that  I  am  gone.  There's  no 
necessity  to  say  any  thing  else.  I 
shall — if  I  miss  seeing  him  in  town — 
I  shall  write  to  him  here." 

"  And  when  shall  you  be  back  ?" 

"  Soon.     Good-by,  my  darling." 

He  held  his  wife  folded  in  his 
arms,  like  he  had  recently  held  Meta. 
The  tears  were  raining  down  her 
cheeks. 

"  Don't  grieve,  Maria.  It  will  blow 
over,  I  say.  God  bless  you.  Take 
care  of  Meta." 

Maria's  heart  felt  as  if  it  were  break- 
ing. But  in  the  midst  of  her  own  dis- 
tress, she  remembered  the  claims  of 
others.  "That  ten-pound  note,  George? 
If  you  are  not  back  in  a  day  or  two, 
how  shall  I  have  it  ?  The  woman 
may  be  coming  for  it." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  back.  Or  you  can 
ask  Thomas." 

In  his  careless  indifference  he 
thought  he  should  be  back.  He  was 
not  going  to  run  away :  only  to  ab- 
sent himself  from  the  brunt  of  the  ex- 
plosion. That  his  delinquencies  would 
be  patent  to  Thomas  and  to  others 
by  Monday  morning,  he  knew :  it 
would  be  just  as  well  to  let  some  of 
their  astonishment  and  anger  have 
vent  and  evaporate  without  his  pres- 
ence,— be  far  more  agreeable  to  him- 
self, personally.  In  his  careless  in- 
difference, too,  he  had  spoken  the 
words,  "You  can  ask  Thomas."  A 
moment's  consideration  would  have 
told  him  that  Thomas  would  have  no 
ten-pound  notes  to  give  to  Maria. 
George  Godolphin  was  one  who  never 
lost  heart.  He  was  indulging,  now, 
the  most  extravagantly  sanguine  hopes 
of  raising  money  in  London,  by  some 
means  or  other.  Perhaps  Yerrall 
could  help  him  ? 

He  strained  his  wife  to  his  heart, 
kissed  her  again,  and  was  gone.  Ma- 
ria sat  down  in  the  midst  of  her  blind- 
ing tears. 

Walking  round  to  the  stables,  he 
waited  there  while  his  horse  was  got 
ready,  mounted  him,  the  small  black 
case  in  front,  and  rode  away  alone. 
The  groom  thought  his  master  was 
but  goiDg  out  for  a  ride,  like  he  did 


on  other  days :  but  the  man  did  won- 
der that  Mr.  George  should  go  that 
day.  Crancomb  was  a  small  place 
about  five  miles  off:  it  had  a  railway 
station,  and  the  ordinary  trains  stopped 
there.  What  motive  induced  him  to 
go  there  to  take  the  train,  he  best 
knew.  Probably,  he  did  not  care  to 
excite  the  observation  and  comments 
which  his  going  off  from  Prior's  Ash 
on  that  day  would  be  sure  to  excite. 
Seriously  to  fear  being  stopped,  he 
did  not. 

He  rode  along  at  a  leisurely  pace, 
reaching  Crancomb  just  before  the  up- 
train  was  expected.  Evidently  the 
day's  great  disaster  had  not  yet  trav- 
eled to  Crancomb.  George  was  re- 
ceived with  all  the  tokens  of  respect, 
ever  accorded  to  the  Godolphins.  He 
charged  the  landlord  of  the  inn  to 
send  his  horse  back  to  Prior's  Ash  on 
Monday  morning,  changed  Mrs.  Bond's 
ten-pound  note,  and  chatted  familiarly 
to  the  employes  at  the  station  after 
taking  his  ticket. 

Up  came  the  train.  Two  or  three 
solitary  passengers,  bound  for  the 
place,  descended,  two  or  three  mount- 
ed into  it.  The  whistle  sounded ;  the 
engine  shrieked  and  puffed ;  and 
George  Godolphin,  nodding  familiarly 
around  with  his  gay  smile,  was  carried 
onwards  on  his  road  to  London. 

Maria  had  sat  on,  her  blinding  tears 
raining  down.  What  a  change  it  was ! 
What  a  contrast  from  the  happiness 
of  the  morning  !  That  a  few  minutes 
should  have  power  to  bring  forth  so 
awful  a  change  !  The  work  she  had 
been  so  eager  over  before,  lay  on  the 
table.  Where  had  its  enjoyment 
gone  ?  She  turned  from  it  now  with 
a  feeling  not  far  removed  from  sick- 
ness. Nothing  could  be  thought,  of 
now  but  the  great  trouble  which  had 
fallen  :  there  was  no  further  satisfac- 
tion to  be  derived  from  outward 
things.  The  work  lay  there,  untouched ; 
destined,  though  she  knew  it  not, 
never  to  have  another  stitch  set  in  it 
by  its  mistress ;  and  she  sat  on  and 
on,  her  hands  clasped  inertly  before 
her,  her  brain  throbbing  with  its  un- 
certainty and  care. 


292 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


CHAPTER  XLY. 


MRS.  BOND  S  VISIT. 


In  the  old  study  at  All  Souls'  Rec- 
tory— if  you  have  not  forgotten  that 
modest  room — in  the  midst  of  nearly 
as  much  untidiness  as  used  to  charac- 
terize it  when  the  little  Hastingses 
were  in  their  untidy  ages,  sat  some  of 
them  in  the  summer's  evening.  Rose's 
drawings  and  fancy-work  lay  about ; 
Mrs.  Hastings's  more  substantial  sew- 
ing lay  about ;  and  a  good  deal  of  litter 
besides,  out  of  Reginald's  pockets ;  not 
to  speak  of  books  belonging  to  the 
boys,  fishing-tackle,  and  sundries. 

Nothing  was  being  touched,  nothing 
used  ;  it  all  lay  neglected,  like  Maria 
Godolphin's  work  had  done,  earlier  in 
the  afternoon.  Mrs.  Hastings  sat  in 
a  listless  attitude,  her  elbow  on  the 
old  cloth  cover  of  the  table,  her  face 
turned  to  her  children.  Rose  sat  at 
the  window  ;  Isaac  and  Reginald  were 
standing  by  the  mantelpiece ;  and 
Grace,  her  bonnet  thrown  off  on  the 
floor,  her  shawl  unpinned  and  par- 
tially falling  from  her  shoulders,  half 
sat,  half  knelt  at  her  mother's  side, 
her  face  upturned  to  her,  asking  for 
particulars  of  the  calamity.  Grace 
had  come  running  in  but  a  few  minutes 
ago,  eager,  anxious,  and  impulsive. 

"  Only  think  the  state  I  have  been 
in  !"  she  cried.  "  But  one  servant  in 
the  house,  and  unable  to  leave  baby  to 
get  down  here  !     I " 

"  What  brings  you  with  only  one 
servant  ?"  interrupted  Rose. 

"  Because  Ann's  mother  is  ill,  and  I 
have  let  her  go  home  until  Monday 
morning.  I  wish  you'd  not  put  me 
out  with  frivolous  questions,  Rose  !" 
added  Grace,  in  her  old,  quick,  sharp 
manner.  "  Any  other  day  but  Satur- 
day, I'd  have  left  baby  to  Martha,  and 
she  might  have  put  her  work  off;  but 
on  Saturdays  there's  always  so  much 
to  do.  I  had  half  a  mind  to  come  and 
bring  the  baby  myself.  What  should 
I  care,  if  Prior's  Ash  did  see  me  car- 
rying him  ?  But,  mamma,  you  don't 
tell  me — how  has  this  dreadful  thing 
been  brought  on  ?'' 


"  /  tell  you,  Grace  !"  returned  Mrs 
Hastings.  "  I  should  be  glad  to  know 
myself." 

"  There's  a  report  going  about — 
Tom  picked  it  up  somewhere  and 
brought  it  home  to  me — that  Mr. 
George  Godolphin  has  been  playing 
pranks  with  the  bank's  money,"  con- 
tinued Grace. 

"  Grace,  my  dear,  were  I  you,  1 
would  not  repeat  such  a  report,': 
gravely  observed  Mrs.  Hastings. 

Grace  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
George  Godolphin  had  never  been  a 
favorite  of  hers,  and  never  would  be. 
"  It  may  turn  out  to  be  true,"  said  she. 

"  Then,  my  dear,  it  will  be  time 
enough  for  us  to  talk  of  it,  when  it 
does.  You  are  fortunate,  Grace  :  you 
had  no  money  there." 

"  I'm  sure  we  had,"  answered  Grace, 
more  bluntly  than  politely.  "  We 
had  thirty  pounds  there.  And  thirty 
pounds  would  be  as  much  of  a  loss  to 
us  as  thirty  hundred  to  some." 

"  Akeman  must  be  getting  on — to 
keep  a  banking  account !"  cried  free 
Reginald. 

Grace,  for  a  wonder,  did  not  detect 
the  irony  ;  though  she  knew  that  Re- 
ginald— like  herself  by  George  Go- 
dolphin— had  never  liked  Mr.  Ake- 
man, and  always  told  Grace  she  had 
lowered  herself  by  marrying  an  archi- 
tect of  no  standing. 

"  Seven  hundred  pounds  were  lodged 
in  the  bank,  to  his  account,  when  that 
chapel-of-ease  was  begun,"  she  said, 
in  answer  to  Reginald's  remark.  "  He 
has  drawn  it  all  out,  for  wages  and 
such  like,  except  thirty  pounds.  And 
of  course  that,  if  it  is  lost,  will  be  our 
loss.  Had  the  bank  stood  until  next 
week,  there  would  have  been  a  fur- 
ther large  sum  paid  in.  Will  it  go  on 
again,  Isaac  ?" 

"  You  may  as  well  ask  questions  of 
a  stranger,  as  ask  them  of  me,  Grace," 
was  her  brother  Isaac's  answer.  "I 
cannot  tell  you  any  thing  certain." 

"You  won't,  you  mean,"  retorted 
Grace.  "I  suppose  you  clerks  may 
not  tell  tales  out  of  school  What 
sum  has  the  bank  gone  for,  Isaac  ? 
That,  surely,  may  be  told." 


T  HE     SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


293 


"  Not  for  any  sum,''  was  Isaac's  an- 
swer. "  The  bank  has  riot  '  gone1  yet, 
in  that  sense.  There  was  a  run  upon 
the  bank  this  morning,  and  the  calls 
were  so  great  that  we  had  not  enough 
money  in  the  place  to  satisfy  them, 
and  were  obliged  to  cease  paying.  It 
is  said  that  the  bank  will  be  open  again 
on  Monday,  when  assistance  shall  have 
come  ;  that  business  will  be  resumed, 
as  usual.  Mr.  Godolphin  himself  said 
so  ;  and  he  is  not  one  to  say  a  thing 
unless  it  has  foundation.  I  know 
nothing  more  than  that,  Grace,  what- 
ever you  may  choose  to  infer." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  there 
are  no  suspicions  in  the  bank  that 
something,  more  than  the  public  yet 
knows,  is  amiss  with  George  Godol- 
phin ?"  persisted  Grace. 

Isaac  answered  lightly  and  eva- 
sively. He  was  aware  that  such  sus- 
picions were  afloat  with  the  clerks. 
Led  to  chiefly  by  that  application  from 
the  stranger,  and  his  rude  and  signifi- 
cant charges,  made  so  publicly.  Isaac 
had  not  been  present  at  that  applica- 
tion :  it  was  somewhat  curious,  per- 
haps— for  there's  a  freemasonry  runs 
amidst  the  clerks  of  an  establishment, 
and  they  talk  freely  one  with  another 
— that  he  never  heard  of  it  until  after 
the  stoppage  of  the  firm.  If  he  had 
heard  of  it,  he  would  certainly  have 
told  his  father.  But  whatever  private 
suspicions  he  and  his  fellow-clerks 
might  be  entertaining  against  George 
Godolphin,  he  was  not  going  to  speak 
of  them  to  Grace  Akeman. 

Grace  turned  to  her  mother.  "  Papa 
has  a  thousand  pounds  or  two  there, 
has  he  not  ?" 

"  Ah,  child  !  if  that  were  but  all !" 
returned  Mrs.  Hastings,  with  a  groan. 
"  Why  !  "What  more  has  he  there  ?" 
asked  Grace,  startled  by  the  words  and 
the  tone.  Rose,  startled  also,  turned 
round  to  await  the  answer. 

Mrs.  Hastings  seemed  to  hesitate. 
But  only  for  a  moment.  "  I  do  not 
know  why  I  should  not  tell  you,"  she 
said,  looking  at  her  daughters.  "  Isaac 
and  Reginald  both  know  it.  He  had 
just  lodged  there  the  trust-money  be- 


longing to  the  Chieholma  :  nine  thou- 
sand and  forty-five  pounds." 

A  blank  silence  fell  upon  the  room. 
Grace  and  her  sister  were  too  dis- 
mayed to  speak  immediately.  Regi- 
nald, who  had  now  seated  himself 
astride  on  a  chair,  his  face  and  arms 
hanging  over  the  back  of  it,  set  up  a 
soft,  lugubrious  whistle,  the  tune  of 
some  old  sea-song, — feeling,  possibly, 
the  silence  to  be  uncomfortable.  To 
disclose  a  little  secret,  Mr.  Reginald 
was  not  in  the  highest  of  spirits,  having 
been  subjected  to  some  hard  scolding 
that  day  on  the  part  of  his  father  and 
some  tears  on  the  part  of  his  mother, 
touching  the  non-existence  of  any  per- 
sonal baggage.  He  had  arrived  at 
home  for  the  fourth  time  since  his  first 
departure  for  sea,  his  luggage  consist- 
ing exclusively  of  a  shirt  and  a  half. 
Of  every  thing  else  belonging  to  him, 
which  he  had  taken  out,  he  was  able 
to  give  no  account  whatever.  It  is 
rather  a  common  complaint  amongst 
young  sailors. 

"  Is  papa  responsible  for  it  ?"  The 
half-frightened  question  came  from 
Rose. 

"  Certainly  he  is,"  replied  Mrs. 
Hastings.  "  If  the  bank  should  vol 
go  on,  why — we  are  ruined.  As 
well  as  those  poor  children,  the  Chis- 
holms." 

"Oh,  mamma!  why  did  he  not 
draw  it  out  this  morning  ?"  cried 
Grace,  in  a  tone  of  pain.  "  Tom  told 
me  that  many  people  had  got  paid  in 
full." 

"  Had  he  known  the  state  the  bank 
was  in,  that  there  was  any  thing  the 
matter  with  it,  no  doubt  he  would 
have  drawn  it  out,"  returned  Mrs. 
Hastings. 

"  Did  Maria  know  it  was  paid  in  ?" 
"Yes." 

Grace's  eyes  flashed  fire.  Somehow, 
she  was  never  inclined  to  be  too  con- 
siderate to  Maria.  She  never  had 
been,  from  a  child.  "  A  dutiful 
daughter !  Not  to  give  her  father 
warning  !" 

"Maria  may  not  have  been  able  to 
do  it,"  observed  Mrs.  Hastings.    "  Per- 


294 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


haps  she  did  not  know  that  any  thing 
was  wrong." 

"  Nonsense,  mamma  !"  was  Grace's 
answer.  "We  have  heard — when  a 
thing  like  this  happens,  you  know 
people  begin  to  talk  freely,  to  compare 
notes,  as  it  were — and  we  have  heard 
that  George  Godolphin  and  Maria  are 
owing  money  all  over  the  town. 
Maria  has  not  paid  her  housekeeping 
bills  for  ever  so  long.  Of  coarse  she 
must  have  known  what  was  coming  !" 

Mrs.  Hastings  did  not  dispute  the 
point  with  Grace.  The  main  fact 
troubled  her  too  greatly  for  minor 
considerations  to  be  very  prominent 
yet.  She  had  never  found  Maria  other 
than  a  considerate  and  dutiful  daugh- 
ter :  and  she  must  be  convinced  that 
she  had  not  been  so  in  this  instance, 
before  she  could  believe  it. 

"  She  was  afraid  of  compromising 
George  Godolphin,"  cried  Grace,  in  a 
bitter  tone.  "  He  has  ever  been  first 
and  foremost  with  her." 

"  She  might  have  given  the  warning 
without  compromising  him,"  returned 
Mrs.  Hastings ;  but,  in  making  the 
remark,  she  did  not  intend  to  cast  any 
reflection  on  Maria.  "  When  your 
papa  went  to  pay  the  money  in,  it 
was  after  banking-hours.  Maria  was 
alone,  and  he  told  her  what  he  had 
brought.  Had  she  been  aware  of  any 
thing  wrong,  she  might  have  given  a 
hint  to  him,  there  and  then.  It  need 
never  have  been  known  to  George  Go- 
dolphin— even  that  your  papa  had  any 
intention  of  paying  money  in." 

"  And  this  was  recently  ?" 

"  Only  a  few  days  ago." 

Grace  pushed  her  shawl  more  off 
her  shoulders,  as  if  she  were  in  a  heat, 
and  beat  her  knee  up  and  down  as 
she  sat  on  the  low  stool.  Suddenly 
she  turned  to  Isaac. 

"  Had  you  no  suspicion  that  any 
thing  was  wrong  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  slight  one,"  he  incautiously 
answered.  "  A  doubt,  though,  more 
than  a  suspicion." 

Grace  took  up  the  admission  warm- 
ly. "  And  you  could  hug  the  doubt 
slyly  to  yourself  and  never  warn 
your  father  !"  she  indignantly  uttered. 


"  A  fine  son,  you  are,  Isaac  Hast- 
ings 1" 

Isaac  was  of  equable  temperament. 
He  did  not  retort  on  Grace  that  he 
had  warned  him,  but  that  Mr.  Hastings 
had  not  acted  upon  the  hint ;  at  least, 
not  effectually.  "  When  my  father 
blames  me,  it  will  be  time  for  you  to 
blame  me,  Grace,"  was  all  he  said  in 
answer.  "  And — in  my  opinion — it 
might  be  just  as  well  if  you  waited  to 
hear  whether  Maria  deserves  blame, 
before  you  cast  so  much  to  her." 

"Pshaw  !"  returned  Grace.  "  The 
thing  speaks  for  itself." 

Had  Grace  witnessed  the  bitter  sor- 
row, the  prostration,  the  uncertainty 
in  which  her  sister  was  sunk  at  that 
moment,  she  might  have  been  moFe 
charitable  in  her  judgment.  Practical 
and  straightforward  herself,  it  would 
have  been  as  impossible  for  Grace  to 
remain  ignorant  of  her  husband's 
affairs,  pecuniary  or  else,  as  it  was  for 
her  to  believe  that  Maria  Godolphin 
had  remained  so.  And,  if  fully  con- 
vinced that  such  had  indeed  been  the 
fact,  Grace  would  have  deemed  such  a 
state  of  contented  ignorance  to  be 
little  less  than  a  crime.  She  and 
Maria  were  constituted  as  essentially 
different  as  two  people  can  well  be. 
Pity  but  she  could  have  seen  Maria 
then. 

Maria  was  in  her  dining-room.  She 
had  made  a  pretence  of  going  down 
to  dinner,  not  to  excite  the  observation 
and  remarks  of  the  servants  ;  in  her 
excessive  sensitiveness  she  could  not 
bear  that  they  should  even  see  she 
was  in  grief.  Grace,  in  her  place, 
might  have  spoken  openly  and  angrily 
before  her  household  of  the  state  of 
affairs.  Not  so  Maria  :  she  buried  it 
all  within  her. 

She  could  not  eat.  Toying  with 
this  plate  and  that  plate,  she  knew 
not  how  to  swallow  a  morsel  or  to 
make  pretence  to  do  so,  before  the 
servants,  standing  by.  But  it  came 
to  an  end,  that  dinner,  and  Maria  was 
left  alone. 

She  sat  on,  musing ;  her  brain  racked 
with  busy  thoughts.  To  one  of  the 
strangely  refined  organization  of  Maria 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


295 


Hastings,  a  blow,  like  that  fallen,  ap- 
peared more  terrible  than  its  actuality. 
Of  the  consequences  she  as  yet  knew 
little,  could  foresee  less ;  therefore 
they  were  not  much  glanced  at  by  her  : 
but  of  the  disgrace  Maria  took  an  ex- 
aggerated view.  Whether  the  bank 
went  on  again,  or  not,  they  seemed  to 
have  fallen  from  their  high  pedestal ; 
and  Maria  shrunk  with  a  visible  shud- 
der at  the  bare  thought  of  meeting  her 
friends  and  acquaintances  ;  at  the  idea 
of  going  out  to  show  herself  in  the 
town. 

Many  would  not  have  minded  it ; 
some  would  not  have  looked  upon  it 
in  the  light  of  a  disgrace  at  all :  minds 
and  feelings,  I  say,  are  constituted 
differently.  Take  Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain, 
for  example.  Had  she  enjoyed  the 
honor  of  being  George  Godolphin's 
wife,  she  would  not  have  shed  a  tear, 
or  eaten  a  meal  the  less,  or  abstained 
by  so  much  as  a  single  day  from  glad- 
dening the  eyes  of  Prior's  Ash.  Walk- 
ing, riding,  or  driving,  Charlotte  would 
have  shown  herself  as  usual. 

Pierce  came  in.  And  Maria  lifted 
her  head  with  a  start,  and  made  a  pre- 
tence of  looking  up  quite  carelessly, 
lest  the  man  should  see  how  full  of 
trouble  she  was. 

"Here's  that  Mrs.  Bond  at  the 
door,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  get 
rid  of  her.  She  declares  that  you 
gave,  her  leave  to  call,  and  said  that 
you  would  see  her." 

Maria  seemed  to  grow  hot  and  cold. 
That  the  woman  had  come  for  her 
te^pound  note,  she  felt  convinced, 
induced  to  it,  perhaps,  by  the  mis- 
fortune of  the  day,  and — she  had  not 
got  it  to  give  her.  Maria  would  have 
given  a  great  deal  for  a  ten-pound 
bank-note  then. 

"  I  will  see  her,  Pierce,"  she  said. 
"  Let  her  come  in." 

Mrs.  Bond,  civil  and  sober  to-night, 
came  in,  curtseying.  Maria — ah  I 
that  sensitive  heart ! — felt  quite  meek 
and  humbled  before  her ;  very  different 
from  what  she  would  have  felt  had 
she  had  the  money  to  give  her.  Mrs. 
Bond  asked  for  it  civilly. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  give  it 


you  to-night,"  answered  Maria.  "  I 
will  send  it  to  you  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  You  promised,  ma'am,  that  I 
should  have  it  whenever  I  axed,"  said 
she. 

"  I  know  I  did,"  replied  Maria.  "  If 
I  had  it  in  the  house  I  would  give  it 
you  know.  You  shall  have  it  next 
week." 

"  Can  I  have  it  on  Monday  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Bond. 

"Yes,"  answered  Maria.  "  Shall  I 
send  it  to  you  ?" 

"  I'd  not  give  the  trouble,"  said 
Mrs.  Bond.  "  I'll  make  bold  to  step 
up  again  and  get  it,  ma'am,  on  Mon- 
day." 

"  Yery  well,"  replied  Maria.  "  If 
Miss  Meta  were  here,  she  would  ask 
after  the  parrot." 

"  It's  beautiful,"  exclaimed  Dame 
Bond.  "  It's  tail  be  like  a  lovely  green 
plume  o'  feathers.  But  I  ain't  got 
used  to  its  screeching  yet.  Then  I'll 
be  here  on  Monday,  ma'am,  if  you 
please." 

Maria  rang  the  bell,  and  Pierce  es- 
corted her  to  the  door.  To  return 
again  on  Monday. 

Maria  Godolphin  never  deemed  that 
she  was  not  safe  in  making  the  prom- 
ise. Thomas  Godolphin  would  be 
home  then,  and  she  could  get  the  note 
from  him. 

And  she  sat  on  alone,  as  before ; 
her  mind  more  troubled,  her  weary 
head  upon  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  XLYL 

A   DREAD   FEAR. 

Can  you  picture  what  were  the  sen- 
sations of  Maria  Godolphin  during 
that  night  ?  No  ;  not  unless  it  has 
been  your  lot  to  pass  through  such. 
She  went  up  to  her  bedroom  at  the 
usual  time,  not  to  excite  any  gossip 
in  the  household  ;  she  undressed  her- 
self mechanically;  she  got  into  bed. 
It  had  been  much  the  custom  with 
herself  and  George  to  sleep  with  the 


296 


T  EI  E      SHADOW      OF      A  S  H  L  Y  D  Y  A  T. 


blinds  up.  They  liked  a  light  room  ; 
and  a  large  gas-lamp  in  Crosse  Street 
threw  its  full  light  in.  Xow  she  lay 
with  her  eyes  closed  :  not  courting 
sleep  ;  she  knew  that  there  would  be 
no  sleep  for  her,  no  continuous  sleep, 
for  many  and  many  a  night  to  come  : 
now,  she  turned  on  her  uneasy  bed 
and  lay  with  her  eyes  open  :•  any  thing 
for  a  change  in  the  monotonous  hours. 
The  commodious  dressing-table,  its 
large  glass,  its  costly  ornaments, 
stood  between  the  windows  ;  she 
could  see  its  outlines,  almost  trace  the 
pattern  of  its  white  lace  drapery  over 
ihe  pink  silk.  The  white  window- 
curtains  were  looped  up  with  pink  ; 
some  of  the  pretty  white  chairs  were 
finished  off  with  pink  braiding.  The 
carpet  was  of  green,  with  white  and 
pink  roses  on  it.  A  large  cheval- 
glass  swung  in  a  corner.  On  a  con- 
sole of  white  marble,  its  frettings  of 
gilt,  stood  Maria's  Prayer-book  and 
Bible,  with  Wilson's  Supper  and 
Sacra  Privata  :  a  book  she  frequently 
opened  for  a  few  minutes  in  a  morn- 
ing. A  small  ornamental  bookcase 
was  on  the  opposite  side,  containing 
some  choice  works  culled  from  the 
literature  of  the  day.  On  the  table, 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  lay  a  small 
traveling-desk  of  George's,  which  he 
had  left  there  when  packing  his  things. 
All  these  familiar  objects,  with  others, 
were  perfectly  clear  to  Maria's  eyes  ; 
and  yet  she  saw  them  not.  If  the 
thought  intruded  that  this  comfort- 
able bedchamber  might  not  much 
longer  be  hers,  she  did  not  dwell 
upon  it.  That  phase  of  the  misfortune 
had  scarcely  come.  Her  chief  sensa- 
tion was  one  of  shivering  cold.  She 
felt  cold  all  over, — that  nervous  cold- 
ness which  only  those  who  have  ex- 
perienced intense  dread  or  pain  of 
mind,  ever  have  felt.  She  shivered 
inwardly  and  outwardly, — and  she 
said  perpetually,  "When  will  the 
night  be  gone  ?"  It  was  only  the 
precursor  of  worse  nights,  many  of 
them  in  store. 

Morning  dawned  at  last.  Maria 
watched  in  the  daylight ;  and  lay 
closing  her  eyes  against  the  light  until 


it  was  the  usual  time  of  rising.  She 
got  up,  shivering  still,  and  unrefreshed. 
Many  a  one  might  have  slept  through 
the  night,  just  as  usual,  have  risen 
renovated,  have  been  none  the  worse, 
in  short,  in  spirit  or  in  health,  for  the 
blow  which  had  fallen.  Charlotte 
Pain  might  have  slept  all  the  better. 
II  y  a  des  femmes  et  cles  femmes. 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  the 
church-bells  were  giving  token  of  it, 
as  it  is  customary  for  them  to  do  at 
eight  o'clock.  When  Maria  got  down 
to  breakfast,  it  was  nearly  nine.  The 
sun  was  bright,  and  the  breakfast- 
table,  laid  with  its  usual  care,  in  the 
pleasant  dining-room,  was  bright  also 
with  its  china  and  silver. 

Something  else  looked  bright. 
And  that  was  Miss  Meta.  Miss  Meta 
came  in,  following  on  her  mamma's 
steps,  and  attended  by  Margery. 
Very  bright  in  her  Sunday  attire, 
— an  embroidered  white  frock,  its 
sleeves  tied  up  with  blue  ribbons,  and 
a  blue  sash.  Careful  Margery  had 
put  a  white  pinafore  over  the  whole, 
lest  the  frock  should  come  to  grief  at 
breakfast.  On  Sunday  mornings 
Meta  was  indulged  with  a  seat  at  her 
papa  and  mamma's  breakfast-table. 

The  child  was  a  little  bit  of  a  gour- 
mand, as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  many 
children  at  that  age  to  be.  She  liked 
nice  things  very  much  indeed.  Bound- 
ing to  the  breakfast-table,  she  stood 
on  tiptoe,  her  chin  up,  regarding 
what  there  might  be  on  it.  Maria 
drew  her  to  her  chair  apart,  and  sat 
down  with  the  child  on  ber  knee,  to 
take  her  morning  kiss. 

"  Have  you  been  a  good  girl,  Meta  ? 
Have  you  said  your  prayers  ?" 

"Yes,"  confidently  answered  Meta 
to  both  questions. 

"  She  has  said  'em  after  a  fashion,'' 
grunted  Margery.  "  It's  not  much 
prayers  that's  got  out  of  her  on  a 
Sunday  morning,  except  hurried  ones. 
I  had  to  make  her  say  the  Lord's 
Prayer  over  twice,  she  gabbled  it  so. 
Her  thoughts  are  fixed  on  coming 
down  here, — afraid  for  fear  the  break- 
fast should  be  eat,  I  suppose." 

Maria  was  in  no  mood  for  bestow- 


T  11  E      S  II  A  D  0  \Y      U  F      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T 


297 


ing  admonition.  She  stroked  the 
child's  smooth  golden  curls  fondly, 
and  kissed  her  pretty  lips. 

"Where's  papa?"  asked  Meta. 

"He  is  out,  dear.  Don't  you  re- 
member ?  Papa  went  out  yesterday. 
He  has  not  got  home  yet." 

Meta  drew  a  long  face.  Papa  in- 
dulged her  more  than  mamma  did, 
especially  in  the  matter  of  breakfast. 
Mamma  was  apt  to  say  such  and  such 
a  dainty  was  not  good  for  Meta : 
papa  helped  her  to  it,  whether  good 
for  her  or  not. 

Maria^  put  her  down.  "  Set  her  to 
the  table,  Margery.  It  is  cold  this 
morning,  is  it  not  ?"  she  added,  as 
Meta  was  lifted  on  to  a  chair. 

"  Cold  1"  returned  Margery.  "  Where 
can  your  feelings  be,  ma'am  ?  It's  a 
hot  summer's  day." 

Maria  sat  down  herself  to  the  break- 
fast-table. Several  letters  lay  before 
her.  On  a  Sunday  morning  the  let- 
ters were  brought  into  the  dining- 
room,  and  Pierce  was  in  the  habit  of 
laying  them  before  his  master's  place. 
To-day,  he  had  laid  them  before 
Maria's. 

She  took  them  up.  All,  save  three, 
were  addressed  to  the  firm.  Two 
bore  the  private  address  of  George  ; 
the  third  was  for  Margery. 

"  Here  is  a  letter  for  you,  Margery," 
she  said,  laying  the  others  in  a  stack, 
that  they  might  be  carried  into  the 
bank. 

"For  me!"  returned  Margery, 
taken  by  surprise.  "Are  you  sure, 
ma'am  ?" 

For  answer,  Maria  handed  her  the 
letter,  and  Margery,  rummaging  in 
her  pocket  for  her  spectacles,  opened 
it  without  ceremony,  and  stood  read- 
ing it. 

"I  dare  say!  what  else  wouldn't 
they  like  !"  was  her  ejaculatory  re- 
mark. 

"  Is  it  from  Scotland,  Margery  ?" 
asked  her  mistress. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  from  nowhere  else," 
answered  Margery,  in  vexation.  "  I 
have  got  no  other  kin  to  pull  and  tug 
at  me.  They  be  a-going  on  to  Wales, 
bbe  an  1  her  son,  and  she  wants  me  to 


meet  her  on  the  journey  to-morrow, 
just  for  an  hour's  talk.  Some  people 
have  got  consciences  !  Ride  a  matter 
of  forty  mile,  and  spend  a  sight  o' 
money  in  doing  it  !" 

"Are  you  speaking  of  your  sister  ? 
— Mrs.  Bray." 

"  Morc's  the  pity,  I  am,"  answered 
Margery.  "  Selina  was  always  one 
of  the  weak  ones,  ma'am.  She  say? 
she  has  been  ill  again,  feels  likely  to 
die,  and  is  going  to  Wales  for  some 
months  to  her  friends,  to  try  if  the  air 
will  benefit  her.  She'd  be  ever  grate- 
ful for  a  five-pound  note,  she  adds,  not 
having  a  penny-piece  beyond  what 
will  take  her  to  her  journey's  end.  I 
wonder  how  much  they  have  had  off 
me  in  the  whole,  if  it  come  to  be  put 
down !"  wrathfully  concluded  Mar- 
gery. 

"  You  can  have  a  day's  holiday,  you 
know,  Margery,  if  you  would  wish  to 
meet  her  on  the  journey." 

"  I  must  take  time  to  consider  of  it,1' 
shortly  answered  Margery,  who  was 
always  considerably  put  out  by  these 
applications.  "  She  has  been  nothing 
but  a  trouble  to  me,  ma'am,  ever 
since  she  married  that  ne'er-do-well, 
Bray.  Now  then  !  you  be  a  good 
child,  and  don't  upset  the  whole  cup 
of  coffee  over  your  pinafore,  as  you 
did  last  Sunday  morning  !" 

The  parting  admonition  was  ad- 
dressed to  Meta,  in  conjunction  with 
a  slight  shake  administered  to  that 
young  lady,  under  the  pretence  of  re- 
settling her  on  her  chair.  Meta  was  at 
once  the  idol  and  the  torment  of  Mar- 
gery's life.  Margery  withdrew,  and 
Maria,  casting  her  spiritless  eyes  on 
the  breakfast-table,  took  a  modest 
piece  of  dry-toast,  and  put  a  morsel 
into  her  mouth. 

But  she  found  some  difficulty  in 
swallowing  it.  Throat  and  bread  were 
alike  dry.  She  drew  the  butter  to- 
wards her  and  spread  some  on  the 
toast,  thinking  it  might  mend  it.  No  ; 
no.  She  could  not  swallow  buttered 
toast  any  more  than  dry.  The  fault 
did  not  lie  in  the  food. 

"  Would  Meta  like  a  nice  piece  of 
toast  ?"  she  asked. 


298 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


Meta  liked  any  thing  that  was  good 
in  the  shape  of  eatables.  She  nodded 
her  head  several  times  in  succession, 
by  way  of  answer,  her  mouth  being 
full.  And  Maria  passed  the  slice  of 
toast  to  her. 

The  breakfast  came  to  an  end. 
Maria  took  the  child  on  her  knee, 
read  her  a  pretty  Bible  story,  as  was 
her  daily  after-breakfast  custom,  talked 
to  her  a  little,  and  then  sent  her  to 
the  nursery.  She,  Maria,  sat  on  alone. 
She  heard  the  bells  riDg  out  for  ser- 
vice, but  they  did  not  ring  for  her. 
Maria  Godolphin  could  no  more  have 
shown  her  face  in  the  church  that  day 
than  she  could  have  committed  some 
desperately  wrong  act.  Under  the  dis- 
grace which  had  fallen  upon  them,  it 
would  have  seemed,  to  her  sensitive 
mind,  something  like  an  act  of  un- 
blushing impudence.  She  gathered 
her  books  around  her,  and  strove  to 
make  the  best  of  them  alone.  Per- 
haps she  had  scarcely  yet  realized  the 
great  fact  that  God  can  be  a  com- 
forter in  the  very  darkest  affliction. 
Maria's  experience,  that  way  was  yet 
but  limited. 

She  had  told  the  servants  that  she 
would  dine  in  the  middle  of  the  day 
with  the  child,  as  their  master  was 
out ;  and  at  half-past  one  she  sat  down 
to  dinner,  and  made  what  pretence  she 
could  of  eating  some.  Better  pre- 
tence than  she  had  in  the  morning,  for 
the  servants  were  present  now.  She 
took  the  wing  of  a  fowl  on  her  plate, 
and  turned  it  about,  and  managed  to 
finish  all  the  white  meat.  Meta  made 
up  for  her :  the  young  lady  partook 
of  the  fowl  and  other  things  with 
great  relish,  showing  no  signs  that  her 
appetite  was  failing,  if  her  mamma's 
was. 

Later,  she  was  dispatched  for  a 
walk  with  Margery,  and  Maria  was 
once  more  alone.  She  felt  not  to 
know  what  to  do  with  nerself:  the 
house  seemed  too  large  for  her.  She 
wandered  from  the  dining-room  to  her 
sitting-room  up-stairs ;  from  the  sit- 
ting-room, across  the  vestibule,  to  the 
drawing-room.  She  paced  its  large 
proportions,  her  feet  sinking  into  the 


rich  velvet-pile  carpet;  she  glanced 
at  the  handsome  furniture.  But  she 
saw  nothing:  the  sense  of  her  eyes, 
that  day,  was  buried  within  her. 

She  felt  indescribably  lonely;' she 
felt  a  sense  of  desertion.  Nobody 
called  upon  her,  nobody  came  near 
her;  even  her  brother  Reginald  had 
not  been.  People  were  not  in  the 
habit  much  of  calling  on  her  on  a 
Sunday ;  but  their  absence  seemed 
like  neglect,  in  her  deep  sorrow. 
Standing  for  a  minute  at  one  of  the 
windows,  and  looking  out  mechani- 
cally, she  saw  Isaac  pass. 

He  looked  up,  discerned  her  stand- 
ing there,  and  nodded.  A  sudden  im- 
pulse prompted  Maria  to  make  a  sign 
to  him  to  enter.  Her  brain  was  nearly 
wearied  out  with  incertitude  and  per- 
plexity. All  day,  all  night,  had  she 
been  wondering  how  far  the  calamity 
would  fall ;  what  would  be  its  limit, 
what  its  extent  Isaac  might  be  able 
to  tell  her  something  ;  at  present,  she 
was  in  complete  ignorance. 

He  came  up  the  stairs  swiftly,  and 
entered.  "  Alone  !"  he  said,  shaking 
hands  with  her.  "  How  are  you  to- 
day ?" 

"  Pretty  well,"  answered  Maria. 

"You  were  not  at  church,  Maria?" 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  did  not 
go  this  morning." 

A  constrained  sort  of  silence  en- 
sued. If  Maria  waited  for  Isaac  to 
speak  of  yesterday's  misfortune,  she 
waited  in  vain.  Of  all  people  in  the 
world,  he  would  be  the  least  likely  to 
speak  of  it  to  George  Godolphin's  wife 
Maria  must  do  it  herself,  if  she  wanted 
it  done. 

"  Isaac,  do  you  know  whether  the 
bank  will  be  open  again  to-morrow 
morning  ?"  she  began,  in  a  low  tone 

"No,  I  do  not." 

"Do  you  think  it  will?  I  wish 
you  to  tell  me  what  you  think,"  she 
added,  in  a  pointedly  earnest  tone. 

"  You  should  ask  your  husband  for 
information,  Maria.  He  must  be  far 
better  able  to  give  it  you  than  I." 

She  remembered  that  George  had 
told  her  she  need  not  mention  his 
having  left  Prior's  Ash  until  she  saw 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


299 


Thomas  Godolphin  on  Monday  morn- 
ing. Therefore  she  did  not  reply  to 
Issac  that  she  could  not  ask  George, 
because  he  was  absent.  "  Isaac,  I 
wish  you  to  tell  me,"  she  gravely  re- 
joined. "  Any  thing  you  know,  or 
may  think." 

"  I  really  know  very  little,  Maria. 
Nothing,  in  fact,  for  certain.  Prior's 
Ash  is  saying  that  the  bank  will  not 
open  again.  The  report  is  that  some 
message  of  an  unfavorable  nature  was 
telegraphed  down  last  night  by  Mr. 
Godolphin." 

"  Telegraphed  to  whom  ?"  she  asked, 
eagerly. 

"  To  Hurde.  I  cannot  say  whether 
there's  any  foundation  for  it.  Old 
Hurde's  as  close  as  wax.  No  fear  of 
his  propagating  it,  if  it  has  come,  un- 
less it  lay  in  his  business  to  do  so.  I 
walked  out  of  church  with  him,  but 
he  did  not  say  a  syllable  about  it  to 
me." 

Maria  sat  a  few  minutes  in  silence. 
"  If  the  bank  should  not  go  on,  Isaac 
— what  then  ?" 

"  Why,  then — of  course  it  would 
not  go  on,"  was  the  very  logical  an- 
swer returned  by  Mr.  Isaac. 

"But  what  would  be  done,  Isaac  ? 
How  would  it  end  ?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  there  'd  be  an 
official  winding  up  of  affairs.  Per- 
haps the  bank  might  be  reopened 
afterwards,  on  a  smaller  scale.  I  don't 
know." 

"  An  official  winding  up,"  repeated 
Maria,  her  sweet  face  turned  earnestly 
on  her  brother's.  "  Do  you  mean 
bankruptcy  ?" 

"Something  of  that." 

A  blank  pause.  "  In  bankruptcy 
every  thing  is  sold,  is  it  not  ?  Would 
these  things  have  to  be  sold  ?"  look- 
ing round  upon  the  costly  furniture. 

"  Things  generally  are  sold  in  such 
a  case,"  replied  Isaac.  "  I  don't  know 
how  it  would  be  in  this." 

Evidently  there  was  not  much  to 
be  got  out  of  Isaac.  lie  either  did 
not  know,  or  he  would  not.  Sitting 
a  few  minutes  longer,  he  departed — 
afraid,  possibly,  how  far  Maria's  ques- 
tions might  extend. 


Not  long  had  he  been  gone,  when 
boisterous  steps  were  heard  leaping 
up  the  stairs,  and  Reginald  Hastings 
— noisy,  impetuous  Reginald — came 
in.  He  seized  Maria  round  the  waist, 
and  kissed  her  heartily.  Maria  spoke 
reproachfully. 

"  At  home  since  yesterday  morning, 
and  not  to  have  come  to  see  me  be- 
fore !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  They  wouldn't  let  me  come  yes- 
terday," bluntly  replied  Reginald. 
"  They  thought  you'd  be  all  down  in 
the  mouth  with  this  bother,  and  would 
not  care  to  see  folks.  Another  thing  : 
I  was  in  hot  water  with  them." 

A  faint  smile  crossed  Maria's  lips. 
She  could  not  remember  the  time 
when  Reginald  had  not  come  home  to 
plunge  into  hot  water  with  the  powers 
at  the  rectory.  "  What  was  the  mat- 
ter ?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  it  was  the  old  grievance 
about  my  bringing  home  no  traps. 
Things  do  melt  on  a  voyage,  some- 
how ;  and  what  with  one  outlet  and 
another  for  your  pay,  it's  of  no  use 
trying  to  keep  square.  I  say,  where's 
Meta  ?  Gone  out  ?  I  should  have 
come  here  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over, 
only  Rose  kept  me.  I  am  going  to 
Grace's  to  tea.  She  asked  me  last 
night.  How  is  George  Godolphin  ? 
He  is  out  too,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  He  is  well,"  replied  Maria,  pass- 
ing by  the  other  question.  "  What 
length  of  stay  shall  you  make  at  home, 
Reginald  ?" 

"  Not  long,  if  I  know  it.  There's 
a  fellow  in  London  looking  out  for  a 
ship  for  me.  It's  as  gloomy  as  ditch- 
water  this  time  at  home.  They  are 
regularly  cut  up  about  the  business 
here.  Will  the  bank  go  on  again, 
Maria  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  it, 
Reginald.     I  wish  I  did  know." 

"  I  say,  Maria,"  added  the  thought- 
less fellow,  lowering  his  voice, 
"  there's  no  truth,  I  suppose,  in  what 
Prior's  Ash  is  saying  about  George 
Godolphin  ?" 

"  What  is  Prior's  Ash  saying  ?•"  re- 
turned Maria. 

"Ugly  things,"  answered  Reginald. 


300 


THE       SHADOW       OF       ASHLYDYAT. 


"  I    heard    something    about — about 
swindling." 

"  About  swindling  !" 

"  Swindling,  or  forgery,  or  some 
queer  thing  of  that  sort.  I  wouldn't 
listen  to  it." 

Maria  grew  cold.  "  Tell  me  what 
you  heard,  Reginald, — as  well  as  you 
can  remember,"  she  said,  her  unnatu- 
ral calmness  of  tone  and  manner  de- 
ceiving Reginald,  and  cloaking  all  too 
well  her  mental  agony. 

"  Tales  are  going  about  that  there's 
something  wrong  with  George, — that 
he  has  not  been  doing  things  upon 
the  square.  A  bankruptcy's  not  much, 
they  say,  except  to  the  creditors ;  it 
can  be  got  over  :  but  if  there's  any 
thing  worse — why,  the  question  is, 
will  he  get  over  it  ?" 

Maria's  heart  beat  on  as  if  it  would 
burst  its  bounds  ;  her  blood  was 
coursing  through  her  veins  with  a  fiery 
heat.  A  few  moments  of  struggle, 
and  then  she  spoke,  still  with  unnatu- 
ral calmness. 

"  It  is  not  likely,  Reginald,  that 
such  a  thing  could  be  true." 

"  Of  course  it  is  not,"  said  Reginald, 
with  impetuous  indignation.  "If  I 
had  thought  it  was  true,  I  should  not 
have  asked  you  about  it,  Maria,  Why, 
that  class  of  people  have  to  stand  in  a 
dock  and  be  tried,  and  get  imprisoned, 
and  transported,  and  all  the  rest  of  it ! 
That's  just  like  Prior's  Ash  !  If  it 
gets  hold  of  the  story  to-day  that  I 
have  come  home  without  my  sea- 
chest,  to-morrow  it  will  be  saying  that 
I  have  come  home  without  my  head. 
George  Godolphin's  a  jolly  good  fel- 
low, and  I  hope  he'll  turn  round  on 
the  lot.  Many  a  time  he  has  helped 
me  out  of  a  hole  that  I  didn't  dare  tell 
anybody  else  of;  and  I  wish  he  may 
come  triumphant  out  of  this  !" 

Reginald  talked  on,  but  Maria  heard 
him  not.  An  awful  fear  had  been 
aroused  within  her.  Entire  as  was 
her  trust  in  his  honor,  improbable  as 
the  uncertain  accusation  was,  the  ter- 
rible fear,  that  something  or  other 
might  be  wrong,  took  possession  of 
her,  and  ferned  her  heart  to  sickness. 

"I  bought  Meta  a  stuffed  monkev 


out  there,"  continued  Reginald,  jerk- 
ing his  head  aside  to  indicate  some  re- 
mote quarter  of  his  travels.  "  I 
thought  you'd  not  like  me  to  bring 
home  a  live  one  for  her — even  if  the 
skipper  had  allowed  it  to  come  in  the 
ship.  I  came  across  a  stuffed  one. 
cheap,  and  bought  it." 

Maria  roused  herself  to  smile. 
"  Have  vou  brought  it  to  Prior's 
Ash  ?" 

"  Well — no,"  confessed  Reginald, 
coming  down  a  tone  or  two.  "  The 
fact  is,  it  went  with  the  rest  of  my 
things.  I'll  get  her  something  better 
next  voyage.  And  now  I'm  off,  Ma- 
ria, for  Grace's  tea  will  be  ready.  Re- 
member me  to  George  Godolphin. 
I'll  come  in  and  see  him  to-morrow." 

With  a  commotion,  equal  to  that  he 
had  made  in  ascending,  Reginald  clat- 
tered down,  and  Maria  saw  him  and 
his  not  too  good  sailor's  jacket  go 
swaying  up  the  street  towards  her 
sister's.  It  was  the  only  jacket  of 
any  sort  Mr.  Reginald  possessed, — 
and  the  onty  one  he  was  likely  to  pos- 
sess, until  he  could  learn  to  keep  him- 
self and  his  clothes. 

Maria,  with  the  new  fear  at  her 
heart — which,  strive  as  she  might  to 
thrust  it  indignantly  from  her,  to  ig- 
nore it,  to  reason  herself  out  of  it, 
icoald  continue  to  be  a  fear,  and  a 
very  horrible  one — remained  alone  for 
the  rest  of  the  day.  Just  before  bed- 
time, Margery  came  to  her. 

"  I  have  been  turning  it  over  in  my 
mind,  ma'am,  and  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  it  might  be  as  well  if  I  do 
go  to  meet  my  sister.  She's  always 
on  the  groan,  it's  true  ;  but  maybe  she 
is  bad,  and  we  might  never  get  a 
chance  of  seeing  each  other  again. 
So  I  think  I'll  go." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Maria.  "Har- 
riet can  attend  to  Miss  Meta.  What 
time  in  the  morning  must  you  be 
away,  Margery  ?" 

"  By  half-past  six  out  of  here,"  an- 
swered Margery.  "  The  train  goes 
five  minutes  before  seven.  Could  you 
let  me  have  a  little  money,  please, 
ma'am  ?  I  suppose  I  must  give  her  a 
pound  or  two." 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T. 


301 


Maria  felt  startled  at  the  request. 
How  was  she  to  comply  with  it  ?  "I 
have  no  money,  Margery,"  said  she, 
her  heart  beating.  "  At  least,  I  have 
l>ut  very  little, — too  little  to  be  of 
much  use  to  you." 

"  Then  that  stops  it,"  returned  Mar- 
gery, with  her  abrupt  freedom.  "  It's 
of  no  good  for  me  to  think  of  going 
without  money." 

"Have  you  none  by  you?"  asked 
Maria.  "  It  is  a  pity  you  must  be 
away  before  the  bank  opens  in  the 
morning." 

Before  the  bank  opens !  "Was  it 
spoken  in  thoughtlessness  ?*  Or  did 
she  merely  mean  to  indicate  the  hour 
of  arrival  of  Thomas  Godolphin  ? 

"What  I  have  'got  by  me  isn't 
much,"  said  Margery.  "  A  few  shil- 
lings or  so.  It  might  take  me  there 
and  bring  me  back  again  :  but  Selina 
will  look  glum  if  I  don't  give  her 
something." 

In  Maria's  purse  there  remained 
the  sovereign  and  the  seven  shillings 
which  George  had  seen  there.  She 
gave  the  sovereign  to  Margery,  who 
could,  if  she  chose,  give  it  to  her 
sifter.  Maria  suggested  that  more 
could  be  sent  to  her  by  post-office 
order.  Margery's  savings,  what  the 
Brays  had  spared,  and  a  small  legacy 
left  her  by  her  former  mistress,  Mrs. 
Godolphin,  were  in  George's  hands. 
Would  she  ever  see  them  ?  It  was  a 
question  to  be  solved. 

To  her  bed  again,  to  pass  another 
night  such  as  the  last.  As  the  last  ? 
Had  this  night  been  only  as  the  last, 
it.  might  have  been  more  calmly 
borne.  The  chill  coldness,  the  sleep- 
lessness, the  trouble  and  the  pain 
would  have  been  there,  but  not  the 
sharp  agony,  the  awful  dread  she 
scarcely  knew  of  what,  arising  from 
the  incautious  words  of  Reginald. 
It  is  only  by  comparison  that  we  can 
form  a  true  estimate  of  what  is  bad, 
what  good.  Maria  Godolphin  would 
have  said,  the  previous  night,  that  it 
was  impossible  for  any  to  be  worse 
than  that :  ?iow  she  looked  back,  and 
envied  it  in  comparison.  There  had 
been  the    sense    of  the    humiliation, 


the  disgrace  arising  from  an  unfor- 
tunate commercial  crisis  in  their  af- 
fairs ;  but  the  worse  dread  which  had 
come  to  her  now  w ras  not  so  much  as 
dreamt  of.  Curled  up  in  her  bed,  shiver- 
ing like  one  in  mortal  cold,  lay  Maria, 
her  brain  alone  hot,  her  mouth  dry, 
her  thoat  parched.  When,  oh  when 
would  the  night  be  gone  ! 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

COMPANY   TO   BREAKFAST. 

Far  more  unrefrcshed  did  she  arise 
in  the  morning  than  on  the  previous 
one.  The  day  was  charmingly  beauti- 
ful ;  the  morning  hot :  but  Maria 
seemed  to  shake  with  cold.  Margery 
had  gone  on  her  journey,  and  Harriet, 
a  maid  who  waited  on  Maria,  attended 
to  the  child.  Of  course,  with  Margery 
away,  Miss  Meta  ran  riot  in  having 
her  own  will.  She  chose  to  breakfast 
with  her  mamma :  and  her  mamma, 
who  saw  no  particular  objection,  was 
not  in  spirits  to  oppose  it. 

She  was  seated  at  the  table  oppo- 
site Maria,  revelling  in  coffee  and  good 
things,  instead  of  plain  bread-and- 
milk.  A  pretty  picture,  with  her 
golden  hair,  her  smooth  face,  and  her 
flushed  cheeks.  She  wore  a  delicate 
print-frock,  and  a  white  pinafore,  the 
sleeves  tied  up  with  a  light  mauve- 
colored  ribbon,  and  her  pretty  little 
hands  and  arms  were  never  still  above 
the  table.  In  the  midst  of  her  own 
enjoyment,  it  appeared,  she  found 
leisure  to  observe  that  her  mamma 
was  taking  nothing. 

"  Mamma,  why  don't  you  eat  break- 
fast ?" 

"I  am  not  hungry,  Meta." 

"  There's  Uncle  Thomas  !"  she  re- 
sumed. 

Uncle  Thomas  1  At  half-past  eight  ? 
But  Meta  was  right  That  was  Mr. 
Godolphin's  voice  in  the  hall,  speaking 
to  Pierce.  A  gleam  of  something  like 
sunshine  darted  into  Maria's  heart. 
His  early  arrival  seemed  to  whisper 


302 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


of  a  hope  that  the  hank  would  be  re- 
opened,— though  Maria  could  not 
have  told  whence  she  drew  the  de- 
duction. 

She  heard  him  go  into  the  bank. 
But,  ere  many  minutes  elapsed,  he 
had  come  out  again,  and  was  knock- 
ing at  the  door  of  the  breakfast- 
room. 

"  Come  in." 

He  came  in  ;  and  a  grievous  sink- 
ing fell  upon  Maria's  heart  as  she 
looked  at  him.  In  his  pale,  sad  coun- 
tenance, bearing  too  evidently  the 
traces  of  acute  mental  suffering,  she 
read  a  death-blow  to  her  hopes. 
Rising,  she  held  out  her  hand,  not 
speaking. 

"  Uncle  Thomas,  I'm  having  break- 
fast here,"  put  in  a  little  intruding 
voice.  "I'm  having  coffee  and  egg.v 
Thomas  laid  his  hand  for  a  moment 
on  the  child's  head  as  he  passed  her. 
He  took  a  seat  a  little  way  from  the 
table,  facing  Maria,  who  turned  to 
him. 

"  Pierce  tells  me  that  George  is  not 
here." 

"  He  went  to  London  on  Saturday 
afternoon,"  said  Maria.  "  Did  you 
not  see  him  there  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Thomas,  speaking 
very  gravely. 

"  He  bade  me  tell  you  this  morning 
that  he  had  gone — in  case  he  did  not 
see  you  himself  in  town." 

"  Why  has  he  gone  ?  For  what 
purpose  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Maria. 
"  That  was  all  he  said  to  me." 

Thomas  had  his  earnest  dark-gray 
eyes  fixed  upon  her.  Their  expression 
did  not  tend  to  lessen  the  sickness  at 
Maria's  heart.  "  What  address  has  he 
left  ?" 

"  He  gave  me  none,"  replied  Maria. 
"  I  inferred  from  what  he  seemed  to 
intimate,  that  he  would  be  very  soon 
home  again.  I  can  scarcely  remember 
what  it  was  he  really  did  say,  his  de- 
parture was  so  hurried.  I  knew 
nothing  of  it  until  he  had  packed  his 
trunk.  He  said  he  was  going  to  town 
on  business,  and  that  I  was  to  tell  you 
on  Monday  morning." 


"  What  trunk  did  he  take  ?" 

"The  large  one." 

"  Then  he  must  be  thinking  of  stay- 
ing some  time." 

It  was  the  same  thought  which  had 
several  times  occurred  to  Maria.  "  The 
trunk  was  addressed  to  the  railway 
terminus  in  London,  I  remember," 
she  said.  "  He  did  not  take  it  with 
him.  It  was  sent  up  by  the  night- 
train." 

"  Then,  in  point  of  fact,  you  can 
give  me  no  information  about  him,  ex- 
cept this  ?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  feeling,  she 
could  scarcely  tell  why,  rather  ashamed 
of  having  to  make  the  confession. 
But  it  was  no  fault  of  hers  Thomas 
Godolphin  rose  to  retire. 

"  I'm  having  breakfast  with  mamma, 
Uncle  Thomas  !"  persisted  the  little, 
busy  tongue.  "  Margery's  gone  for 
all  day.  Perhaps  I  shall  have  dinner 
with  mamma." 

"  Hush,  Meta,"  said  Maria,  speaking 
in  a  sadly  subdued  manner,  as  if  the 
chatter,  intruded  into  their  serious- 
ness, were  more  than  she  could  bear. 
"  Thomas,  is  the  bank  going  on  again  ? 
Will  it  be  opened  to-day  ?" 

"  It  will  never  go  on  again,"  waff 
Thomas  Godolphin's  answer;  and 
Maria  quite  shrank  from  the  lively 
pain  of  the  tone  in  which  the  words 
were  spoken. 

There  was  a  blank  pause.  Maria 
became  conscious  that  Thomas  had 
turned  and  was  looking  gravely, 
it  may  be  said  searchingly,  at  her 
face. 

"  You  have  known  nothing,  I  pre- 
sume, Maria,  of — of  the  state  that  af- 
fairs were  getting  into  ?  You  were 
not  in  George's  confidence  ?" 

She  returned  the  gaze  with  honest 
openness,  something  like  wonder 
shining  forth  from  her  soft  brown  eyes. 
"  I  have  known  nothing,"  she  an- 
swered. " George  never  spoke  to 
me  upon  business  mattei*s :  he  never 
would." 

No:  Thomas  felt  sure  that  he  had 
not.  He  was  turning  again  to  leave 
the  room,  when  Maria,  her  voice  a 
timid  one,  a  delicate  blush  rising  to 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASIILYDYAT 


303 


her  cheeks,  asked  if  she  could  have 
some  money. 

"  I  have  none  to  give  you,  Maria." 

"  I  expect  Mrs.  Bond  here  after  her 
ten-pound  note.  I  don't  know  what 
I  shall  do,  unless  I  can  have  it  to  give 
her.  George  told  me  I  could  have  it 
from  you  this  morning." 

Thomas  Godolphin  did  not  under- 
stand. Maria  explained — about  her 
having  taken  care  of  the  note,  and  that 
George  had  borrowed  it  on  Saturday. 
Thomas  shook  his  head.  He  was  very 
sorry,  he  said,  but  he  could  do  nothing 
in  it. 

"  It  is  not  like  a  common  debt," 
Maria  ventured  to  urge.  "  It  was 
the  woman's  own  money,  entrusted  to 
me  for  safe  keeping,  on  the  under- 
standing that  she  should  claim  it 
whenever  she  pleased.  I  should  be 
so  much  obliged  to  you  to  let  me  have 
it." 

"  You  do  not  understand  me,  Maria. 
It  is  no  want  of  will  on  my  part.  I 
have  not  the  money." 

Maria's  color  was  gradually  rece- 
ding from  her  face,  leaving  in  its  place 
something  that  looked  like  terror. 
She  would  have  wished  to  pour  forth 
question  after  question. — Has  all  our 
money  gone  ?  Are  we  quite  ruined  ? 
Has  George  done  any  thing  very 
wrong  ? — but  she  did  not.  In  her  re- 
fined sensitiveness  she  had  not  the 
courage  to  put  such  questions  to 
Thomas  Godolphin  :  perhaps  she  had 
not  the  courage  yet  to  encounter  the 
probable  answers. 

Thomas  left  the  room,  saying  no 
more.  He  would  not  pain  her  by 
speaking  of  the  utter  ruin  which  had 
come  upon  them,  the  disgraceful  ruin  ; 
of  the  awful  trouble  looming  down,  in 
which  she  must  be  a  sufferer  equally 
with  himself;  perhaps,  she  the  great- 
est sufferer.  Time  enough  for  it. 
Maria  sat  down  in  her  place  again,  a 
dull  mist  before  her  eyes  and  in  her 
heart. 

"  Mamma,  I've  eaten  my  egg.  I 
want  some  of  that." 

Meta's  finger  was  stretched  towards 
the  ham  at  the  foot  of  the  table. 
Maria   rose  mechanically  to   cut  her 


some.  There  was  no  saying  this 
morning,  "  That  is  not  good  for  Meta." 
Her  heart  was  utterly  bowed  down 
beyond  resistance,  or  thought  of  it. 
She  placed  a  slice  of  ham  on  a  plate, 
cut  it  into  little  pieces,  and  laid  it  be- 
fore that  eager  young  lady. 

"Mamma,  I'd  like  some  buttered 
roll." 

The  roll  was  supplied  also.  What 
would  not  Maria  have  supplied,  if 
asked  for  ?  All  these  common-place 
trifles  appeared  so  pitiably  insignificant 
beside  the  dreadful  trouble  come  upon 
them. 

"A  bit  more  sugar,  please,  mamma." 

Before  any  answer  could  be  given 
to  this  latter  demand,  either  in  word 
or  action,  a  tremendous  summons  at 
the  hall-door  resounded  through  the 
house.  Maria  shrank  from  its  sound. 
A  fear,  she  knew  not  of  what,  had 
taken  up  its  place  within  her,  some 
strange,  undefined  dread,  connected 
with  her  husband. 

Her  poor  heartneed  not  have  beaten 
so ;  her  breath  need  not  have  been 
held,  her  ears  strained  to  listen. 
Pierce  threw  open  the  dining-room 
door,  and  there  rushed  in  a  lady,  all 
demonstrative  sympathy  and  eager- 
ness. A  lady  in  a  handsome  light 
Cashmere  shawl,  which  spread  itself 
over  her  dress  and  nearly  covered  it, 
and  a  pork-pie  straw  hat,  with  an  up- 
right scarlet  tuft,  or  plume. 

It  was  Charlotte  Pain.  She  seized 
Maria's  hand  and  impulsively  asked 
what  she  could  do  for  her.  "  I  knew 
it  would  be  so  !"  she  volubly  ex- 
claimed,— "  that  you'd  be  looking  like 
a  ghost.  That's  the'  worst  of  you, 
Mrs.  George  Godolphin  I  You  let 
any  trifle  worry  you.  The  moment  I 
got  the  letters  in  this  morning,  and 
found  how  nasty  things  were  turning 
out  for  your  husband,  I  said  to  my- 
self, '  There'll  be  Mrs.  George  in  the 
dumps  finely  !'  And- 1  flung  this  shawl 
on  to  cover  my  toilette,  for  I  was  not 
en  grande  tenue,  and  came  off  to 
cheer  you,  and  see  if  I  could  be  of 
any  use." 

Charlotte  flung  her  shawl  off  as  she 
spoke,  ignoring  ceremony.     She  had 


304 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


taken  the  chair  vacated  by  Thomas 
<iodolphin,  and  with  a  dexterous 
movement  of  the  hands,  the  shawl 
fell  behind  her,  disclosing  the  "  toil- 
ette.'' A  washed-out  muslin  skirt  of  no 
particular  color,  tumbled,  and  a  little 
torn  ;  and  some  strange-looking  thing 
above  it,  neither  a  jacket  nor  a  body, 
its  shade  a  bright  yellow  and  its  but- 
tons purple  glass,  the  whole  dirty  and 
stained. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  answered 
Maria,  with  a  shrinking  spirit  and  a 
voice  that  faltered.  Two  points  in 
Mrs.  Pain's  words  had  struck  upon 
her  ominously.  The  mention  of  the 
letters,  and  the  hint  conveyed  in  the 
expression,  things  turning  out  "nasty  " 
for  George.  "  Have  you  heard  from 
him  ?"  she  continued. 

"  Heard  from  him  ! — how  could  I  ?" 
returned  Charlotte.  "  London  letters 
don't  come  in  this  morning.  What 
should  he  have  to  write  to  me  about, 
either?  I  have  heard  from  another 
quarter,  and  I  have  heard  the  rumors 
in  Prior's  Ash." 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  you  have 
heard  ?"  rejoined  Maria. 

"  Well,"  said  Charlotte,  in  a  friendly 
tone,  as  she  leaned  towards  her,  "  I 
suppose  the  docket  will  be  struck  to- 
day,— if  it  is  not  struck  already.  The 
Philistines  are  down  on  the  house, 
and  mean  to  declare  it  bankrupt," 

Maria  sat  in  blank  dismay.  She 
understood  but  little  of  these  business 
matters.  Charlotte  was  quite  at  home 
in  such  things.  "  What  will  be  the 
proceedings  ?"  Maria  asked,  after  a 
pause.     "  What  do  they  do  ?" 

"  Oh,  there's  a  world  of  bother," 
returned  Charlotte.  "  It  will  drive 
quiet  Thomas  Godolphin  crazy.  The 
l>ooks  have  all  to  be  gone  through  and 
accounts  of  moneys  rendered.  The 
worst  is,  they'll  come  here  and  set 
down  every  individual  thing  in  the 
house,  and  then  leave  a  man  in  to  see 
that  nothing's  moved.  That  agreeable 
item  in  the  business  I  dare  say  you 
may  expect  this  morning." 

Let  us  give  Charlotte  her  due.  She 
had  really  come  in  a  sympathizing 
friendly  spirit   to   Maria   Godolphin, 


and  in  no  other.  It  may  be,  that 
Charlotte  rather  despised  her  for  being 
so  simple  and  childish  in  the  ways  of 
the  world,  but  that  was  only  the  more 
reason  why  she  should  help  her  if  she 
could.  Every  word  of  informatiun 
that  Mrs.  Pain  was  giving,  was  as  a 
dagger-prick  in  Maria's  heart.  Char- 
lotte had  no  suspicion  of  this.  Had 
a  similar  calamity  happened  to  herself, 
she  would  have  discussed  it  freely 
with  all  the  world  :  possessing  no  ex- 
treme sensibility  of  feeling,  she  did 
not  understand  it  in  another.  For 
Maria  to  talk  of  the  misfortune,  let 
its  aspect  be  ever  so  bad,  seemed  to 
Charlotte  perfectly  natural. 

Charlotte  leaned  closer  to  Maria, 
and  spoke  in  a  whisper.  "  Is  there 
any  thing  you'd  like  to  put  away  ?" 

"  To  put  away  ?"  repeated  Maria, 
not  awake  to  the  drift  of  the  argu- 
ment, 

"  Because  you  had  better  give  it  to 
me  at  once.  Spoons,  or  plate  of  any 
sort,  or  your  own  jewelry, — any  little 
things  that  you  may  want  to  save. 
I'll  carry  them  away  under  my  shawl. 
Xever  mind  how  heavy  they  are. 
Don't  you  understand  me  ?"  she  added, 
seeing  the  blank  perplexity  on  Maria's 
face.  "  If  once  those  harping  men 
come  in,  you  can't  move  or  hide  a 
single  article,  but  you  might  put  the 
whole  house  away  now,  if  you  could 
get  it  out." 

"But  suppose  it  were  known  ?" 
asked  Maria. 

"  Then  there'd  be  a  row,"  was  Char- 
lotte's candid  answer.  "  WTho's  to 
know  it  ?    Look  at  that  little  stuffer  ?" 

Meaning  Miss  Meta,  who  was  filling 
her  mouth  pretty  quickly  with  th« 
pieces  of  ham,  seemingly  with  great 
relish. 

"  Is  it  good,  child  ?"  said  Char- 
lotte. 

For  answer,  Meta  nodded  her  head, 
too  busy  to  speak.  Maria,  as  in 
civility  bound,  invited  her  visitor  to 
take  some, — some  breakfast. 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  said  Char- 
lotte. "  I  was  just  going  to  break- 
fast when  I  came  off  to  you.  Look 
here,    Mrs.  George    Godolphin.       I'll 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


305 


help  myself:  you  go  meanwhile  and 
make  up  a  few  parcels  for  me.  Just 
what  you  set  most  value  by,  you  know." 

"  I  should  be  afraid,"  answered 
Maria. 

"What  is  there  to  be  afraid  of?" 
asked  Charlotte,  opening  her  eyes. 
"  They'll  be  safe  enough  at  the  Folly. 
That  is  Lady  Godolphin's, — her  pri- 
vate property.  The  bankruptcy  can't 
touch  that, — as  it  will  this  place  and 
Ashlydyat." 

"  Ashlydyat !"  broke  from  Maria's 
lips. 

"  Ashlydyat  will  have  to  go,  of 
course,  and  every  thing  in  it.  At  the 
same  time  that  those  harpies  walk  in 
here,  another  set  will  walk  into  Ash- 
lydyat, I  should  like  to  see  Janet's 
face  when  they  arrive  !  You  make 
haste,  and  put  up  all  you  can.  There 
may  be  no  time  to  lose." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  would  be  right," 
debated  Maria. 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  about  '  right' ! 
Such  things  are  done  every  day.  I 
dare  say  you  have  many  little  valua- 
bles that  you'd  rather  keep  than  lose." 

"  I  have  many  that  it  would  be  a 
great  grief  to  me  to  lose." 

"Well,  go  and  put  them  together. 
I  will  take  every  care  of  them,  and 
return  them  to  you  when  the  affair 
has  blown  over." 

Maria  hesitated.  To  her  honorable 
mind  there  appeared  to  be  something 
like  fraud  in  attempting  such  a  thing. 
"  Will  you  allow  me  just  to  ask  Thomas 
Godolphin  if  I  may  do  it  ?"  she  said. 

Charlotte  Pain  began  to  believe 
that  Maria  must  be  an  idiot.  "  Ask 
Thomas  Godolphin  !  You  would  get 
an  answer  !  Why,  Mrs.  George,  you 
know  what  Thomas  Godolphin  is, — 
with  his  strait-laced  principles  !  He 
would  cut  himself  in  two,  rather  than 
save  a  button,  if  it  was  not  legally  his 
to  save.  I  believe  if  by  the  stroke  of 
a  pen  he  could  make  it  appear  that 
Ashlydyat  could  not  be  touched,  he'd 
not  make  the  stroke.  Were  you  to 
go  with  such  a  question  to  Thomas 
Godolphin,  he'd  order  you,  in  his 
brother's  name,  not  to  put  aside  as 
much  as  a  ten-and-sixpennv  ring. 
19 


You  must  do  it  without  the  knowledge 
of  Thomas  Godolphin." 

"  Then  I  think  I  would  rather  not 
do  it,"  said  Maria.  "  Thank  you  all 
the  same,  Mrs.  Pain." 

Mrs.  Pain  shrugged  her  shoulders 
with  a  movement  of  contempt,  threw 
off  the  pork-pie,  and  drew  her  chair 
to  the  breakfast-table.  Maria  poured 
out  some  coffee,  and  helped  her  to 
what  she  chose  to  take. 

"  Are  you  sure  the — the  people  you 
speak  of  will  be  in  the  house  to-day  ?" 
asked  Maria. 

"  I  suppose  they  will." 

"  I  wish  George  would  come  back  !" 
involuntarily  broke  from  Maria's  lips. 

"He'd  be  a  great  donkey  if  he  did," 
said  Charlotte.  "  He's  safer  where 
he  is." 

"  Safer  from  what  ?"  quickly  asked 
Maria. 

"  From  bother.  I  should  not  come 
if  I -were  George.  I  should  let  them 
fight  the  battle  out  without  me.  Mrs. 
George  Godolphin,"  added  Charlotte, 
meaning  to  be  good-natured,  "  you 
had  better  reconsider  your  resolve  and 
let  me  save  you  a  few  things.  Not  a 
stick  or  stone  will  be  saved.  This 
will  be  a  dreadful  failure,  and  you 
won't  be  spared.  They'll  take  every 
trinket  you  possess,  leaving  you  noth- 
ing but  your  wedding-ring." 

Maria  could  not  be  persuaded.  She 
seemed  altogether  in  a  fog,  under- 
standing little :  but  she  felt  that  what 
Charlotte  proposed  would  not  be  with- 
in the  strict  rules  of  right, 

"  They'll  poke  their  noses  into  draw- 
ers and  boxes, — into  every  hole  and 
corner  in  the  house  ;  and  from  that 
time  forth  the  things  are  not  yours, 
but  theirs,"  persisted  Charlotte,  for 
her  information. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  sighed  Maria. 
"  I  wish  George  was  here  !" 

"At  any  rate,  you'll  do  one  thing," 
said  Charlotte.  "  You'll  let  me  carry 
off  the  child  for  the  day.  It  will  not 
be  a  pleasant  sight  for  her,  young  as 
she  is,  to  witness  a  lot  of  great  hulk- 
ing men  going  through  the  rooms, 
noting  down  the  furniture.  I'll  take 
her  back  with  me." 


306 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


Maria  made  no  immediate  reply. 
She  did  not  particularly  like  the  com- 
panionship of  Mrs.  Pain  for  Meta. 
Charlotte  saw  her  hesitation. 

"  Are  you  thinking  she  will  be  a 
trouble  ?  Nothing  of  the  sort.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  have  her  for  the  day,  and 
it  is  as  well  to  spare  her  such  sights. 
I  am  sure  her  papa  would  say  so." 

Maria  thought  he  would,  and  she 
thought  how  kind  Mrs.  Pain  was. 
Charlotte  turned  to  Meta. 

"Will  Meta  come  and  spend  the 
day  at  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly  ? — 
and  have  a  high  swing  made  between 
the  trees,  and  go  out  in  the  carriage  in 
the  afternoon  and  buy  sugar-plums  ?" 

Meta  looked  dubious,  and  honored 
the  invitation-giver  with  a  full  stare 
in  the  face.  Notwithstanding  the 
swing  and  the  sugar-plums,  —  both 
very  great  attractions  indeed  to  Meta, 
—  certain  reminiscences  of  her  last 
visit  to  the  Folly  were  intruding  them- 
selves. 

"Are  the  dogs  there  ?"  asked  she. 

Charlotte  gave  a  most  decided  shake 
of  the  head,  putting  down  her  coffee- 
cup  to  do  it.  "  The  dogs  are  gone," 
she  said.  "  They  were  naughty  dogs 
to  Meta,  and  they  have  been  shut  up 
in  the  pit-hole,  and  can  never  come 
out  again." 

"  Never,  never  ?"  inquired  Meta, 
her  wide-open  eyes  as  earnest  as  her 
tonsrue. 

""Never,"  said  Charlotte.  "  The 
great  big  pit-hole  lid's  fastened  down 
with  a  strong  brass  chain, — a  chain  as 
thick  as  Meta's  arm.  It  is  all  right," 
added  Charlotte,  in  an  aside  whisper 
to  Maria,  while  pretending  to  reach 
over  the  breakfast-table  for  an  egg- 
spoon.  "  She  shan't  as  much  as  hear 
the  dogs.  I'll  have  them  fastened  in 
the  stable.  We'll  have  such  a  beau- 
tiful swing,  Meta !" 

Meta  gobbled  down  the  remainder 
of  her  breakfast  and  slid  off  her  chair. 
Reassured  upon  the  subject  of  the 
dogs,  she  was  eager  to  be  off  at  once 
to  the  pleasures  of  the  swing.  Maria 
rang  for  Harriet,  and  gave  orders  that 
she  should  be  dressed. 

"  Let  her  come  in  this  frock,"  said 


Charlotte.  "  There's  no  knowing 
what  damage  it  may  undergo  before 
the  day's  out." 

Meta  was  taken  away  by  Harriet. 
Charlotte  finished  her  breakfast,  and 
Maria  sat  burying  her  load  of  care, 
even  from  the  eyes  of  friendly  Char- 
lotte. "  Do  you  like  my  Garibaldi 
shirt  ?"  suddenly  asked  the  latter. 

"  Like  what  ?"  questioned  Maria, 
not  catching  the  name. 

"  This,"  replied  Charlotte,  indicat- 
ing the  yellow  article  by  a  touch. 
"  They  are  new  things  just  come  up  : 
Garibaldi  shirts  they  are  called.  Mrs. 
Yerrall  sent  me  three  down  from  Lon- 
don :  a  yellow,  a  scarlet,  and  a  blue. 
They  are  all  the  rage,  she  says.  Do 
you  admire  it  ?" 

But  for  Maria's  innate  politeness, 
and  perhaps  for  the  sadness  beating 
at  her  heart,  she  would  have  answered 
that  she  did  not  admire  it  at  all  :  that 
it  looked  an  untidy,  shapeless  thing. 
Charlotte  continued,  without  waiting 
for  a  reply : 

"You  don't  see  it  to  advantage.  It 
is  soiled,  and  has  lost  a  button  or  two. 
Those  dogs  make  horrid  work  of  my 
things,  with  their  roughness  and  their 
dirty  paws.  Look  at  this  great  rent 
in  my  dress  which  I  have  pinned  up  ! 
Pluto  did  that  this  morning.  He  is 
getting  fearfully  savage,  now  he's 
old." 

"You  must  not  allow  them  to 
frighten  Meta,"  said  Maria,  some- 
what anxiously.  "  She  should  not 
see  them." 

"  I  have  told  you  she  shall  not. 
Can't  you  trust  me  ?     The  dogs " 

Charlotte  paused.  Meta  came  burst- 
ing in,  ready  ;  in  her  large  straw  hat 
with  its  flapping  brim,  and  her  cool, 
brown-holland  over-dress.  Charlotte 
rose,  drew  her  shawl  about  her  shoul- 
ders, and  carried  the  pork-pie  to 
the  chimney-glass,  to  settle  it  on. 
Then  she  took  Meta  by  the  hand,  said 
ccood  morning,  and  sailed  out,  the 
effect  of  her  visit  having  been  partly 
to  frighten,  partly  to  perplex,  Maria. 

Meta  came  running  back,  all  in  a 
bustle,  Charlotte  following  her.  She 
had  escaped  from  Charlotte's  hand  as 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASI1LYDYAT 


307 


Pierce  was  opening  the  street-door. 
"  Mamma,  you  have  not  read  me  a 
Bible  story !"  Meta  could  not  re- 
member when  that  customary  after- 
breakfast  routine  had  been  dispensed 
with  before,  and  was  surprised. 

"  No,  darling.  Perhaps  I  can  read 
you  one  to-night." 

"  As  if  Bible  stories  did  any  good 
to  children  so  young  as  Meta  !"  remark- 
ed Charlotte,  tossing  up  the  scarlet 
tuft.  "It's  quite  waste  of  time,  Mrs. 
George  Godolphin.  I'd  rather  amuse 
a  child  of  mine  with  half  a  column  of 
Be  IPs  Life." 

Maria  made  no  answering  reply. 
She  kissed  again  the  little  face  held 
up  to  her,  and  they  finally  departed. 
Maria  rang  for  the  breakfast-things  to 
be  removed.  It  was  soon  done,  and 
then  she  sat  on  with  her  load  of  care, 
and  her  new  apprehensions.  These 
agreeable  visitors  that  Charlotte  warn- 
ed her  of — she  wondered  that  Thomas 
had  not  mentioned  it.  Would  they 
take  all  the  clothes  she  had  up-stairs, 
leaving  her  only  what  she  stood  up- 
right in?  Would  they  take  Meta's? 
Would  they  take  her  husband's  out  of 
his  drawers  and  places  ?  Would  they 
take  the  keeper  off  her  finger  ?  It 
was  studded  with  diamonds.  Char- 
lotte had  said  they  would  only  leave 
her  her  wedding-ring.  These  thoughts 
were  troubling  and  perplexing  her ; 
but  only  in  a  degree.  Compared  to 
that  other  terrible  thought,  they  were 
as  nothing, — the  uncertain  fear  re- 
garding her  husband  which  had  been 
whispered  to  her  by  the  careless  sailor, 
Reginald  Hastings. 


CHAPTER    XLVIII. 

BEARING   THE   BRUNT. 

Thomas  Godolphin  sat  in  the  bank- 
parlor,  bearing  the  brunt  of  the  shock. 
With  his  pain  upon  him,  mental  and 
bodily,  he  was  facing  all  the  trouble 
that   George    ought   to   have   faced : 


the  murmurs,  the  questions,  the  re- 
proaches. 

All  was  known.  All  was  known  to 
Thomas  Godolphin.  Not  alone  to  him. 
Could  Thomas  have  kept  the  terrible 
facts  within  his  own  breast,  have 
shielded  his  brother's  reputation  still, 
he  would  have  done  it :  but  that  was 
impossible.  In  becoming  known  to 
Mr.  Godolphin,  it  had  become  known 
to  others.  The  discovery  had  been 
made  jointly,  by  Thomas  and  by  cer- 
tain business  gentlemen,  when  he  was 
in  London  on  the  Saturday  afternoon. 
Treachery  upon  treachery !  The  long 
course  of  deceit  on  George  Godolphin's 
part  had  come  out.  Falsified  books, 
wrongly  rendered  accounts,  good  se- 
curities replaced  by  false,  false  bal- 
ance-sheets. Had  Thomas  Godolphin 
been  less  blindly  trustful  in  George's 
honor  and  integrity,  it  could  never 
have  been  so  effectually  accomplished. 
George  Godolphin  was  the  acting 
manager  :  and  Thomas,  in  his  perfect 
trust,  combined  with  his  failing 
health,  had  left  things  latterly  almost 
entirely  in  George's  hands.  "  What 
business  had  he  so  to  leave  them  V 
people  were  asking  now.  Perhaps 
Thomas's  own  conscience  was  asking 
the  same.  But  why  should  he  not 
have  left  things  to  him,  considering 
that  he  /laced  in  him  the  most  im- 
plicit confidence  ?  Surely,  no  unpre- 
judiced man  would  say  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin had  been  guilty  of  impru- 
dence. George  was  fully  equal  to  the 
business  confided  to  him,  in  point  of 
power,  of  capacity;  and  it  could  not 
certainly  matter  which  of  the  brothers, 
equal  partners,  equal  heads  of  the  firm, 
took  its  practical  management.  It 
would  seem  not :  and  yet  they  were 
blaming  Thomas  Godolphin  now. 

Failures  of  this  nature  have  been 
recorded  before,  where  fraud  has 
played  its  part.  We  have  only  to 
look  to  the  records  of  our  law  courts 
— criminal,  bankruptcy,  and  civil — for 
examples.  To  transcribe  the  precise 
means  by  which  George  Godolphin 
had  contrived  to  bear  on  in  a  course 
of  deceit,  to  elude  the  suspicion  of  the 


308 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


world  in  general,  and  the  vigilance 
of  his  own  house,  would  only  be  to 
recapitulate  what  has  often  been  told 
In  the  public  papers  ;  and  told  to  so 
much  more  purpose  than  I  could  tell 
it.  It  is  rather  with  what  may  be 
called  the  domestic  phrase  of  these 
tragedies  that  I  would  deal :  the  pri- 
vate, home  details,  the  awful  wreck 
of  peace,  of  happiness  caused  there. 
The  world  knows  enough  (rather  too 
much,  sometimes)  of  the  public  part 
of  these  affairs  ;  but  what  does  it  know 
of  the  part  behind  the  curtain  ? — the, 
if  it  may  be  so  said,  inner  aspect  ? 

I  knew  a  gentleman  years  ago  who 
was  a  partner  in  a  country  banking- 
house, — a  sleeping  partner ;  and  the 
bank  failed, — failed  ^hrough  a  long- 
continued  course  of  treachery  on  the 
part  of  one  connected  with  it, — some- 
thing like  that  described  to  you  as 
pursued  by  Mr.  George  Godolphin. 
This  gentleman  (of  whom  I  tell  you) 
was  to  be  held  responsible  for  the 
losses,  creditors  and  others  decided, 
the  real  delinquent  having  disap- 
peared,— escaped  beyond  their  reach. 
They  lavished  upon  him  harsh  names : 
rogue,  thief,  swindler  !  while,  in  point 
of  fact,  he  was  as  innocent  and  un- 
conscious of  what  had  happened  as 
they  were.  He  gave  up  all  he  had  ; 
the  bulk  of  his  means  had  gone  with 
the  bank  ;  and  he  went  out  of  the  hear- 
ing of  his  abusers  for  a  while,  until 
things  should  be  smoother, — perhaps 
the  bad  man  caught.  A  short  time, 
and  he  became  ill,  and  a  medical  man 
was  called  in  to  him.  Another  short 
time,  and  he  was  dead ;  and  the  doc- 
tors said — I  heard  them  say  it — that 
his  malady  had  been  brought  on  by 
grief;  that  he  had,  in  fact,  died  of  a 
broken  heart.  He  was  a  kindly  gen- 
tleman ;  a  good  husband,  a  good  father, 
a  good  neighbor ;  a  single-hearted, 
honest  man  ;  the  very  soul  of  kind- 
ness and  honor  :  but  he  was  misjudged 
by  those  who  ought  to  have  known 
him  better ;  and  he  died  for  it.  I 
wonder  what  the  real  rogue  felt  when 
he  heard  of  the  death  ?  He  was  a 
relative.  There  are  many  such  cases 
in  the  world  ;  where  reproachful  abuse 


is    levelled    at   one   whose   heart   is 
breaking. 

There  appeared  to  be  little  doubt 
that    George  Godolphin's  embarrass- 
ments had  commenced  years  ago.     It 
is  more  than  probable  that  the  money 
borrowed    from  Terrall    during   that 
short  sojourn  in  Homberg  had  been 
its  precursor.     Once  in  the  hands  of 
the  clever  charlatan,  the  crafty,  un- 
scrupulous bill-discounter,  who  grew 
fat  on  the  folly  of  others,  his  down- 
ward course  was  perhaps  not  easy  or 
swift,    but   at    all   events   sure.       If 
George  Godolphin  had  but  been  a  lit- 
tle more  clear-sighted,  the  evil  might 
never  have  come.     Could  he  but  have 
seen  Terrall  at  the  first  onset,  as  he 
was, — not  the   gentleman,  the   good- 
hearted  man,  as  George  credulously 
believed,    but    the    low    fellow   who 
traded  on  the  needs  of  others,  the  de- 
signing  sharper,   looking   ever   after 
his  prey, — George  would  have  flung 
him  far  away,  with  no  other  feeling 
than   contempt.      George    Godolphin 
was  not  born  a  rogue.     George  was 
by  nature  a  gentleman,  and  an  open- 
handed   one,  too ;    but,   once    in   the 
clutches  of  Terrall,  he  was  no  more 
able  to  escape  than  are  the  unhappy 
flies  who  go  buzzing  against  the  shi- 
ning papers  placed  to  catch  them,  and 
there  stick.     Bit  by  bit,  step  by  step, 
gradually,  imperceptibly, George  found 
himself  stuck.     He  awoke  to  the  fact 
that  he  could  neither  stir  upwards  nor 
downwards.     He  could  not.  extricate 
himself;  he  could  not  go  on  without 
exposure  ;  Terrall,  or  Te  mill's  agents, 
those   working  in  concert  with  him, 
though    not    ostensibly,   stopped    the 
supplies,   and   George  was  in  a   fix. 
Then  began  the  frauds  upon  the  bank. 
Slightly  at  first.     It  was  only  a  choice 
between  that  and  exposure.    Between 
that   and    ruin,   it   may  be   said,  for 
George's  liabilities  were  so  great,  that, 
if  brought  to  a  climax,  they  must  then 
have  caused  the  bank  to  stop,  involving 
Thomas  in  ruin  as  well  as  himself.    In 
his  sanguine  temperament,  too,  he  was 
always  hoping  that  some  lucky  turn 
would  redeem  the  bad  and  bring  all  to 
rights    again.     It   was    Terrall  who 


THE     SHADOW      OF     ASIILYDYAT. 


309 


urged  him  on.  It  was  Yerrall  who, 
with  Machiavellian  craft,  made  the 
wrong  appear  the  right ;  it  was  Yer- 
rall who  had  filled  his  pockets  with 
the  emptiness  of  George's.  That  Yer- 
rall had  been  the  arch-tempter,  and 
George  the  arch-dupe,  was  clear  as 
the  sun  at  noonday  to  those  who  were 
behind  the  scenes.  Unfortunately, 
but  very  few  were  behind  the  scenes 
so  far — they  might  be  counted  by 
units — and  Yerrall  and  Co.  could  still 
blazon  it  before  the  world. 

The  wonder  was,  where  the  money 
had  gone.  It  very  often  is  the  wonder 
in  these  cases, — a  wonder  too  often 
never  solved.  An  awful  amount  of 
money  had  gone  in  some  way ;  the 
mystery  was,  how.  George  Godol- 
phin  had  kept  up  a  large  establish- 
ment; bad  been  personally  extrava- 
gant, privately  as  well  as  publicly ; 
but  that  did  not  serve  to  account  for 
the  half  of  the  money  missing  ;  not 
for  a  quarter  of  it ;  nay,  scarcely  for 
a  tithe.  Had  it  been  to  save  himself 
from  hanging,  George  himself  could 
not  have  told  how  or  where  it  had 
gone.  When  the  awful  sum  total 
came  to  be  added  up,  to  stare  him  in 
the  face,  he  looked  at  it  in  blank 
amazement.  And  he  had  no  good  to 
show  for  it — none  ;  the  money  had 
melted,  and  he  could  not  tell  how. 

Of  course,  it  had  gone  to  the  dis- 
counters. The  tide  of  discounting 
once  set  in,  it  was  something  like  the 
nails  in  the  horse-shoe,  doubling,  and 
doubling,  and  doubling.  The  money 
went,  and  there  was  nothing  to  show 
for  it :  little  marvel  that  George  Go- 
dolphin  stood  aghast  at  the  sum  total 
of  the  whole,  when  the  amount  was 
raked  up, — or  as  near  the  amount  as 
could  be  guessed  at.  When  George 
could  no  longer  furnish  legitimate 
funds  on  his  own  account,  the  bank 
was  laid  under  contribution  to  supply 
them,  and  George  had  to  enter  upon 
a  system  of  ingenuity  to  hide  the  out- 
goings. When  those  contributions 
had  been  levied  to  the  very  utmost 
extent  compatible  with  safety,  with 
the  avoidance  of  sudden  and  imme- 
diate non-discovery,  and  George  was 


at  his  wits'  end  for  money,  which  he 
must  have,  then  Yerrall  whispered 
of  a  way  which  George  at  first  re- 
volted from,  but  which  resulted  in  the 
taking  of  the  deeds  of  Lord  Averil. 
Had  the  crash  not  come  as  it  did, 
other  deeds  might  have  been  taken. 
It  is  impossible  to  say.  Such  a  course 
once  entered  on  is  always  down  hill. 
Like  some  other  downward  courses, 
the  only  safety  lies  in  not  yielding  to 
it  at  the  first  temptation. 

Strange  to  say,  George  Godolphin 
could  not  see  the  rogue's  part  played 
by  Yerrall ;  or  at  best,  he  saw  it  but 
very  imperfectly.  And  yet,  not  strange, 
for  there  are  many  of  these  cases  in 
the  world.  George  had  been  on  inti- 
mate terms  of  friendship  with  Yer- 
rall ;  had  been  lie,  it  may  be  said, 
with  him  and  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly. 
Mrs.  Yerrall  was  pretty.  Charlotte  had 
her  attractions.  Altogether,  George 
believed  yet  in  Yerrall.  Let  the  dag- 
ger's point  be  but  decked  tastefully 
with  flowers,  and  men  will  rush  blindly 
on  to  it. 

Thomas  Godolphin  sat,  some  books 
before  him,  pondering  the  one  weighty 
question — where  could  all  the  money 
have  gone  ?  Lentil  the  present  mo- 
ment, this  morning,  when  he  had  the 
books  before  him  and  his  thoughts 
were  more  practically  directed  to  busi- 
ness details,  he  had  been  pondering 
another  weighty  question, — where  had 
George's  integrity  gone  ?  Whither 
had  flown  his  pride  in  his  fair,  good 
name,  the  honor  of  the  Godolphins  ? 
From  the  Saturday  afternoon  when 
the  dreadful  truth  came  to  light,  Thom- 
as had  had  little  else  in  his  thoughts. 
It  was  his  companion  through  the 
Sunday,  through  the  night  journey 
afterwards  down  to  Prior's  Ash.  He 
was  more  fit  to  be  in  his  bed  than  to 
take  that  journey ;  but  he  must  face 
the  exasperated  men  from  whom 
George  had  flown. 

He  was  facing  them  now.  People 
had  been  coming  in  since  nine  o'clock 
with  their  reproaches,  and  Thomas 
Godolphin  bore  them  patiently  and 
answered  them  meekly, — the  tones  of 
his  voice  low,  subdued,  as  if  they  came 


310 


THE      SHADOW      OF      AS  II  L  YD  Y  AT. 


from  the  sadness  of  a  stricken  heart. 
He  felt  their  wrongs  keenly.  Could 
he  have  paid  these  injured  men  by 
cutting  himself  to  pieces,  and  satisfied 
them  with  the  "  pound  of  flesh,"  he 
Avould  have  done  so,  oh,  how  willingly  ! 
He  would  have  sacrificed  his  life  and 
his  happiness  (his  happiness  1),  and 
done  it  cheerfully,  if  by  that  means 
they  could  have  been  paid. 

"  It's  nothing  but  a  downright 
swindle.  I'll  say  it  sir,  to  your  face, 
and  I  can't  help  saying  it.  Here  I 
bring  the  two  thousand  pound  in  my 
hand,  and  I  say  to  Mr.  George  Godol- 
phin,  'Will  it  be  safe?'  'Yes,'  he 
answers  me,  'it  will  be  safe.'  And 
now  the  bank  has  shut  itself  up,  and 
Where's  my  money  ?" 

The  speaker  was  Barnaby,  the  corn- 
dealer.  What  was  Thomas  Godolphin 
to  answer  ? 

"  You  told  me,  sir,  on  Saturday, 
that  the  bank  would  open  again  to- 
day for  business, — that  the  customers 
would  be  paid  in  full." 

"  I  told  you  but  what  I  believed," 
rose  the  quiet  voice  of  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin  in  answer.  "  Mr.  Barnaby, 
believe  me,  this  blow  has  come  upon 
no  one  more  unexpectedly  than  it  has 
upon  me." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  don't  know  what  may 
be  your  mode  of  carrying  on  business, 
but  I  should  be  ashamed  to  conduct 
mine  so  as  to  let  ruin  come  slap  upon 
me  and  not  to  have  seen  it  coming." 

Again,  what  was  Thomas  Godol- 
phin to  answer  ?  Generous  to  the  end, 
he  would  not  say,  "My  brother  has 
played  us  both,  alike,  false."  "  If  I 
find  that  any  care  or  caution  of  mine 
could  have  averted  this,  Mr.  Barnaby, 
)  shall  carry  the  remorse  to  my  grave," 
was  all  he  said. 

"  What  sort  of  a  dividend  will  there 
be  ?"  went  on  the  dealer. 

"  I  really  cannot  tell  you  yet,  Mr. 
Barnaby.  I  have  no  idea.  We  must 
have  time  to  go  through  the  books." 

"  Where  is  Mr.  George  Godolphin  ?" 
resumed  the  applicant ;  and  it  was  a 
very  natural  question.  "Mr.  Hurde 
says  he  is  away,  but  it  is  strange  he 


should  be  away  at  such  a  time  as  this. 
I  should  like  to  ask  him  a  question  or 
two." 

"  He  is  in  London,"  replied  Thomas 
Godolphin. 

"  But  what's  he  gone  to  London 
for  now  ?  And  when  is  he  coming 
back  ?" 

More  puzzling  questions.  Thomas 
had  to  bear  the  pain  of  many  such 
that  day.  He  did  not  say,  "My 
brother  is  gone  we  know  not  why ;  in 
point  of  fact,  he  has  run  away."  He 
spoke  aloud  the  faint  hopes  that  rose 
within  his  own  breast, — that  some 
train,  ere  the  day  was  over,  would 
bring  him  back  to  Prior's  Ash. 

"  Don't  you  care,  Mr.  Godolphin," 
came  the  next  wailing  plaint,  "  for  the 
ruin  that  the  loss  of  this  money  will 
bring  upon  me  ?  I  have  a  wife  and 
children,  sir." 

"  I  do  care,"  Thomas  answered,  his 
throat  husky  and  a  mist  in  his  eyes. 
"For  every  pang  that  this  calamity 
will  inflict  on  others,  it  inflicts  two  on 
me." 

Mr.  Hurde,  who  was  busy  with 
more  books  in  his  own  department,  in 
conjunction  with  some  clerks,  came  in 
to  ask  a  question,  his  pen  behind  his 
ear ;  and  Mr.  Barnaby,  seeing  no 
good  to  be  derived  from  stopping, 
went  out.  Little  respite  had  Thomas 
Godolphin.  The  next  to  come  in  was 
Rector  of  All  Souls'. 

"  What  is  to  become  of  me  ?"  was 
his  saluting  question,  spoken  in  his 
clear,  decisive  tone.  "  How  am  I 
to  refund  this  money  to  the  little  Chis- 
holms  ?" 

Thomas  Godolphin  had  no  satisfac- 
tory reply  to  make.  He  missed  the 
friendly  hand  held  out  hitherto  in 
greeting.  Mr.  Hastings  did  not  take 
a  chair,  but  stood  up  near  the  table, 
firm,  stern,  uncompromising. 

"  I  hear  George  is  off,"  he  con- 
tinued. 

"  He  is  gone  to  London,  Maria 
informs  me,"  replied  Thomas  Godol- 
phin. 

"  Mr.  Godolphin,  can  you  sit  there 
and  tell  me  that  you  had  no  suspicion 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


311 


of  the  way  things  were  turning  ? 
That  this  ruin  has  come  on,  and  you 
ignorant  ?" 

"  I  had  no  suspicion  ;  none  what- 
ever. None  can  be  more  utterly  sur- 
prised than  I.  There  are  moments 
when  a  feeling  comes  over  me  that  it 
cannot  be  true." 

"  Could  you  live  in  intimate  associa- 
tion with  your  brother,  and  not  see 
that  he  was  turning  out  a  rogue  and 
vagabond  ?"  went  on  the  rector,  in  his 
keenest  and  most  cynical  tone. 

"  I  knew  nothing,  I  suspected  noth- 
ing," was  the  quiet  reply  of  Thomas. 

"  How  dared  he  take  that  money  from 
me  the  other  night,  when  he  knew  that 
he  was  on  the  verge  of  ruin  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Hastings.  "  He  took  it  from  me  ;  he 
never  entered  it  in  the  books  ;  he  ap- 
plied it,  there's  no  doubt,  to  his  own 
infamous  purposes.  When  a  suspicion 
was  whispered  to  me  afterwards  that 
the  bank  was  wrong,  I  came  here  to 
him.  I  candidly  spoke  of  what  I  had 
heard,  and  asked  him  to  return  me 
the  money,  as  a  friend,  a  relative. 
Did  he  return  it  ?  No ;  his  answer 
was  a  false,  plausible  assurance  that 
the  money  and  the  bank  were  alike 
safe.  What  does  he  call  it  ?  Rob- 
bery ?  It  is  worse  ;  it  is  deceit,  fraud, 
vile  swindling.  In  the  old  days, 
luanv  a  man  has  swung  for  less,  Mr. 
Godolphin." 

Thomas  Godolphin  could  not  gain- 
say it. 

"  Nine  thousand  and  forty-five 
pounds !"  continued  the  rector.  "  How 
am  I  to  make  it  good  ?  How  am  I 
to  fmd  money  only  for  the  education 
of  Chishohn's  children  ?  He  confided 
them  and  their  money  to  me  ;  and  how 
have  I  repaid  the  trust  ?" 

Every  word  he  spoke  was  as  a  dag- 
ger entering  the  heart  of  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin. He  could  only  sit  still  and 
bear.  Had  the  malady  that  was  car- 
rying him  to  the  grave  never  before 
shown  itself,  the  days  of  anguish  he 
had  now  entered  on  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  induce  it. 

"  If  I  find  that  Maria  knew  of  this, 
that  she  was  in  league  with  her  hus- 
band to  deceive  me,  I  shall  feel  in- 


clined to  discard  her  from  my  affec- 
tions from  henceforth,"  resumed  the 
indignant  rector.  "  It  was  an  unlucky 
day  when  I  gave  my  consent  to  her 
marrying  George  Godolphin.  I  never 
liked  his  addressing  her.  It  must 
have  been  instinct  warned  me  against 
it." 

"  I  am  convinced  that  Maria  has 
known  nothing,"  said  Thomas  Godol- 
phin.    «  She " 

Mr.  Godolphin  stopped.  Angry 
sounds  had  arisen  outside,  and  pres- 
ently the  door  was  violently  opened, 
and  quite  a  crowd  of  clamorous  people 
came  in,  ready  to  abuse  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin, George  not  being  there  to  re- 
ceive the  abuse.  There  was  no  ques- 
tion but  that  day's  work  took  weeks 
from  his  short  span  of  remaining  life. 
Could  a  man's  heart  break  summarily, 
Thomas  Godolphin's  would  have 
broken  then.  Many  men  would  have 
retaliated  :  he  felt  their  griefs,  their 
wrongs,  as  keenly  as  they  did.  They 
told  him  of  their  ruin,  of  the  desola- 
tion, the  misery  it  would  bring  to 
them,  to  their  wives  and  families ; 
some  spoke  in  a  respectful  tone  of 
quiet  plaint,  some  were  loud,  unrea- 
sonable, half-insulting.  They  demand- 
ed to  know  what  dividend  there  would 
be  ;  some  asked  in  a  covert  tone  to 
have  their  bit  of  money  returned  in 
full ;  some  gave  vent  to  most  unortho- 
dox language  touching  George  Godol- 
phin ;  they  openly  expressed  their 
opinion  that  Thomas  was  conniving 
at  his  absence  ;  they  hinted  that  he 
was  as  culpable  as  the  other. 

None  of  them  appeared  to  glance  at 
the  great  fact — that  Thomas  Godol- 
phin was  the  greatest  sufferer  of  all. 
If  they  had  lost  part  of  their  means, 
he  had  lost  all  of  his.  Did  they  re- 
member that  this  terrible  misfortune, 
which  they  were  blaming  him  for, 
would  leave  him  a  beggar  upon  the 
face  of  the  earth  ?  He,  a  gentleman 
born  to  wealth,  to  Ashlydyat,  to  a  po- 
sition of  standing  in  the  county,  to 
honor,  to  respect  ?  It  had  all  been 
rent  away  by  the  blow,  leaving  him 
homeless  and  penniless,  sick  with  an 
incurable  malady.     Had  they  but  re- 


312 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


fleeted,  they  might  have  found  that 
Thomas  Godolphin  deserved  their  con- 
dolence rather  than  their  abuse. 

But  they  were  in  no  mood  to  reflect, 
or  to  spare  him  in  their  angry  feelings. 
They  gave  vent  to  all  the  soreness 
within  them, — and  perhaps  it  was  ex- 
cusable. 

The  rector  of  All  Souls'  had  had  his 
say,  and  he  strode  forth.  Making  his 
way  to  the  dining-room,  he  knocked 
sharply  with  his  stick  on  the  door, 
and  then  entered.  Maria  rose  up  and 
came  forward,  something  very  like 
terror  on  her  face.  The  knock  had 
frightened  her:  it  had  conjured  up 
visions  of  the  visitors  suggested  by 
Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain. 

"  Where  is  George  Godolphin  ?" 

"  He  is  in  London,  papa,"  she  an- 
swered, her  heart  sinking  at  the  stern 
tone,  the  abrupt  greeting. 

"  When  do  you  expect  him  home  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  He  did  not  tell 
me  when  he  went,  except  that  he 
should  be  home  soon.  Will  you  not 
sit  down,  papa  ?" 

"  Xo.  When  I  brought  that  money 
here  the  other  night,  the  nine  thousand 
and  forty-five  pounds,"  he  continued, 
touching  her  shoulder  to  command  her 
full  attention,  "  could  you  not  have 
opened  your  lips  to  tell  me  that  it 
would  be  safer  in  my  own  house  than 
in  this  ?" 

Maria  was  seized  with  an  inward 
trembling.  She  could  not  bear  to  be 
spoken  to  in  that  stern  tone  by  her 
father.  "  Papa,  I  could  not  tell  you. 
1  did  not  know  it." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  tell  mo  that  you 
knew  nothing — nothing — of  the  state 
of  your  husband's  affairs,  of  the  ruin 
that  was  impending?" 

"I  knew  nothing,"  she  answered. 
"  Until  the  bank  closed  on  Saturday, 
I  was  in  total  ignorance  that  any  thing 
was  wrong.  I  never  had  the  remotest 
suspicion  of  it." 

"  Then,  I  think,  Maria,  you  ought 
to  have  had  it.  Humor  says  that  you 
are  owing  a  great  deal  of  money  in 
the  town  for  your  personal  necessaries, 
housekeeping  and  the  like." 

"  There   is  a   good    deal    owing,  I 


fear,"  she  answered.  "  George  has 
not  given  me  the  money  to  pay  regu- 
larly of  late,  as  he  used  to  do." 

"And  did  that  not  serve  to  open 
your  eyes  ?" 

"  No,"  she  faintly  said.  "  I  never 
cast  a  thought  to  any  thing  being 
wrong." 

She  spoke  meekly,  softly,  something 
like  Thomas  Godolphin  had  spoken. 
The  rector  looked  at  her  pale,  sad 
face,  and  perhaps  a  feeling  of  pity  for 
his  daughter  came  over  him,  however 
bitter  he  may  have  felt  towards  her 
husband. 

"Well,  it  is  a  terrible  thing  for  us 
all,"  he  said,  in  a  kinder  voice,  as  he 
turned  to  move  away. 

"Will  you  not  wait,  and  sit  down, 
papa  ?" 

"  I  have  not  the  time  now.  Good- 
day,  Maria." 

As  he  went  out,  there  stood,  gathered 
against  the  wall,  waiting  to  go  in,  Mrs. 
Bond.  Her  face  was  rather  red  this 
morning,  and  a  perfume — certainly 
not  of  plain  water — might  be  detected 
in  her  vicinity.  Her  snuffy-black 
gown  went  down  in  a  reverence  as  he 
passed.  The  rector  of  All  Souls' 
strode  on.  Care  was  too  great  at  his 
heart  to  allow  of  his  paying  attention 
to  extraneous  things,  even  though  they 
appeared  in  the  shape  of  attractive 
Mrs.  Bond. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

A   FIERY   TRIAL. 

Maria  GoDOLrnm,  her  face  buried 
on  the  sofa  cushions,  where  she  had 
sunk  on  the  departure  of  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Hastings,  was  giving  way  to  tho 
full  tide  of  unhappy  thought  induced 
by  that  gentleman's  words,  when  she 
became  aware  that  she  was  not  alone. 
A  sound,  half  a  grunt,  half  a  sob, 
coming  from  near  the  door,  aroused 
her.  There  stood  a  lady,  in  a  crushed 
bonnet  and  unwholesome  stuff  gown 
that  had  once  been  black,  with  a  red 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT. 


313 


face,  and  a  perfume  of  strong  waters 
around  her. 

Maria  rose  from  the  sofa,  her  heart 
sinking.  How  should  she  meet  this 
woman  ?  how  find  an  excuse  for  the 
money  which  she  had  not  to  give  ? 
"Good-morning,  Mrs.  Bond." 

Mrs.  Bond  took  a  few  steps  for- 
ward, and  held  on  by  the  table.  Not 
that  she  was  past  the  power  of  hold- 
ing herself;  her  face  must  be  redder 
than  it  was,  by  some  degrees,  ere  she 
lost  that ;  but  she  had  a  knack  of 
holding  on  to  things. 

"  I  have  come  for  my  ten-pound 
note,  if  you  please,  ma'am." 

Few  can  imagine  what  this  moment 
was  to  Maria  Godolphin ;  for  few 
are  endowed  with  the  sensitiveness 
of  temperament,  the  refined  considera- 
tion for  the  feelings  of  others,  the 
acute  sense  of  justice,  which  charac- 
terized her.  Maria  would  willingly 
have  given  a  hundred  pounds  to  have 
had  ten  then.  How  she  made  the 
revelation,  she  scarcely  knew, — that 
she  had  not  the  money  that  morning 
to  give. 

Mrs.  Bond's  face  turned  rather 
defiant.  "  You  told  me  to  come  down 
for  it,  ma'am." 

"I  thought  I  could  have  given  it  to 
you.  I  am  very  sorry.  I  must  trou- 
ble you  to  come  when  Mr.  George 
Godolphin  shall  have  returned  home." 

"  Is  he  going  to  return  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Bond,  in  a  quick,  hard  tone. 
"  Folks  is  saying  that  he  isn't." 

Maria's  heart  beat  painfully  at  the 
words.  Was  he  going  to  return  ? 
She  could  only  say  aloud  that  she 
hoped  he  would  very  soon  be  home. 

"  But  I  want  my  money,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Bond,  standing  her  gound.  "  I 
must  have  it,  ma'am,  if  you  please." 

"  I  have  not  got  it,"  said  Maria. 
"  The  very  instant  I  have  it  it  shall 
be  returned  to  you." 

"  I'd  make  bold  to  ask,  ma'am, 
what  right  you  had  to  spend  it. 
Warn't  there  enough  money  in  the 
bank  of  other  folks's  as  you  might 
have  took,  without  taking  mine — 
which  3-0U  had  promised  to  keep 
faithful    for    me  ?"    reiterated     Mrs. 


Bond,  warming  with  her  subject.  "  I 
warn't  a  deposit  in  the  bank,  as  them 
folks  was,  and  I'd  no  right  to  have 
my  money  took.  I  want  to  pay  my 
rent  to-day,  and  to  get  in  a  bito'  food. 
The  house  is  bare  of  every  thing. 
There's  the  parrot  a-screeching  out 
for  seed." 

It  is  of  no  use  to  pursue  the  inter- 
view. Mrs.  Bond  grew  bolder  and 
more  abusive.  But  for  having  par- 
taken rather  largely  of  that  cordial 
which  was  giving  out  its  scent  upon 
the  atmosphere,  she  had  never  so 
spoken  to  her  clergyman's  daughter. 
Maria  received  it  meekly,  her  heart 
aching :  she  felt  very  much  as  did 
Thomas  Godolphin, — that  she  had 
earned  the  reproaches.  But  endur- 
ance has  its  limits  :  she  began  to  feel 
really  ill  ;  and  she  saw,  besides,  that 
Mrs.  Bond  appeared  to  have  no  inten- 
tion of  departing.  Escaping  out  of 
the  room  in  the  midst  of  a  fierce 
speech,  she  encountered  Pierce,  who 
was  crossing  the  hall. 

"  Go  into  the  dining-room,  Pierce," 
she  whispered,  "and  try  and  get  rid 
of  Mrs.  Bond.  She  is  not  quite  her- 
self this  morning,  and — and — she  talks 
too  much.  But  be  kind  and  civil  to 
her,  Pierce  :  let  there  be  no  disturb- 
ance." 

Her  pale  face,  as  she  spoke,  was 
lifted  to  the  butler  almost  pleadingly. 
He  thought  how  wan  and  ill  his  mis- 
tress looked.  "  I'll  manage  it,  ma'am," 
he  said,  turning  to  the  dining-room. 

By  what  process  Pierce  did  manage 
it,  was  best  known  to  himself.  There 
was  certainly  no  disturbance.  A  little 
talking,  and  Maria  thought  she  heard 
the  sound  of  something  liquid  being 
poured  into  a  glass,  as  she  stood  out 
of  view  behind  the  turning  at  the 
back  of  the  hall.  Then  Pierce  and 
Mrs.  Bond  issued  forth,  the  best 
friends  imaginable,  the  latter  smacking 
her  lips  and  talking  amiably. 

Maria  came  out  from  her  hiding- 
place,  but  only  to  encounter  some  one 
who  had  pushed  in  at  the  hall-door  as 
Mrs.  Bond  left  it.  A  little  man  in  a 
white  neckcloth.  He  advanced  straight 
to  Mrs.  George  Godolphin. 


314 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


"  Can  I  speak  a  word  to  you, 
ma'am,  if  you  please  ?"  he  asked, 
taking  off  his  hat. 

She  could  only  answer  in  the  affirm- 
ative, and  she  led  the  way  to  the 
dining-room.  She  wondered  who  he 
was  :  his  face  seemed  familiar  to  her. 
The  first  words  he  spoke  told  her, 
and  she  remembered  him  as  the  head 
assistant  at  the  linendraper's  where 
she  chiefly  dealt.  He  had  been  sent 
to  press  for  the  payment  of  the  ac- 
count. She  could  only  tell  him  as 
she  had  told  Mrs.  Bond, — that  she 
was  unable  to  pay  it. 

•'  Mr.  Jones  would  be  so  very  much 
obliged  to  you,  ma'am,"  he  civilly 
urged.  "  It  has  been  standing  now 
some  little  time,  and  he  hopes  you 
will  stretch  a  point  to  pay  him.  If 
you  could  only  giv;e  me  part  of  it,  he 
would  be  glad." 

•'  I  have  not  got  it  to  give,"  said 
Maria,  telling  the  truth  in  her  un- 
happiness.  She  could  but  be  candid  : 
she  was  unable  to  fence  with  them, 
to  use  subterfuge,  as  others  might 
have  done.  She  spoke  the  truth,  and 
spoke  it  meekly.  When  Mr.  George 
Godolphin  came  home  she  hoped  she 
should  pay  them,  she  said.  The  mes- 
senger took  the  answer,  losing  none 
of  his  respectful  manner,  and  de- 
parted. 

But  all  were  not  so  civil ;  and  many 
found  their  way  to  her  that  day. 
Once  a  thought  came  across  her  to 
scud  them  into  bank  ;  but  she  re- 
membered Thomas  Godolphin's  failing 
health,  and  the  battle  he  had  to  fight  on 
his  own  account.  Besides,  these  claims 
were  for  personalities, — debts  owing  by 
herself  and  George.  In  the  afternoon, 
Pierce  came  in  and  said  a  lady  wished 
to  see  her. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  asked  Maria. 

Pierce  did  not  know.  She  was  not 
a  visitor  of  the  house.  She  gave  in 
her  name  as  Mrs.  Harding 

The  applicant  came  in  Maria  rec- 
ognized her,  when  she  threw  back  her 
vail,  as  the  wife  of  Harding  the  un- 
dertaker. Pierce  closed  the  door,  and 
they  were  left  together. 

"  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling, 


Mrs.  George  Godolphin,  to  ask  if  you 
will  not  pay  our  account,"  began  the 
applicant,  in  a  low,  confidential  tone. 
"Do,  pray,  let  us  have  it  if  you  can." 

Maria  was  surprised.  There  was 
nothing  owing  that  she  was  aware  of. 
There  could  be  nothing.  "What  ac- 
count are  you  speaking  of  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  The  account  for  the  interment  of 
the  child, — your  little  one  who  died 
last,  ma'am." 

"  But  surely  that  is  paid  !" 

"  No,  it  is  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Hard- 
ing. "  The  other  accounts  were  paid, 
but  that  never  has  been.  Mr.  George 
Godolphin  has  promised  it  times  and 
again  ;   but  he  never  paid  it." 

Not  paid  !  The  burial  of  their  child  ! 
Maria  felt  her  face  flush.  Was  it  care- 
lessness on  George's  part,  or  had  he 
been  so  long  embarrassed  for  money 
that  to  part  with  it  was  a  trouble  to 
him.  Maria  could  not  help  thinking 
that  he  might  have  spared  some  little 
remnant  for  just  debts,  while  lavishiug 
so  much  upon  the  bill-discounters. 
She  could  not  help  feeling  another 
thing, — that  it  was  George's  place  to 
be  meeting  and  battling  with  these 
unhappy  claims,  rather  than  hers. 

"  This  must  be  paid,  of  course,  Mrs. 
Harding,"  she  said.  "  I  had  no  idea 
but  that  it  was  paid.  When  Mr. 
George  Godolphin  comes  home,  I  will 
ask  him  to  see  about  it  instantly." 

"Ma'am,  can't  you  pay  me  ?ww?" 
urged  Mrs.  Harding.  "  If  it  waits 
till  the  bankruptcy's  declared,  it  will 
have  to  go  into  it ;  and  they  say — 
they  do  say  that  there'll  be  nothing 
for  anybody.  We  can't  afford  to  lose 
it,"  she  added,  speaking  confidentially. 
"  What  with  bad  debts  and  long-stand- 
ing out-accounts,  we  are  on  the  eve 
of  a  crisis  ourselves, — though  I  should 
not  like  it  to  be  known.  This  will 
help  to  stave  it  off,  if  you  will  let  us 
have  it." 

"  I  wish  I  could,"  returned  Maria. 
"  I  wish  I  had  it  to  give  you.  It 
ought  to  have  been  paid  long  ago." 

"  A  part  of  it  was  money  paid  out 
of  our  pocket,"  said  Mrs.  Harding,  in 
a  reproachful    tone.      "Mrs.  George 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


315 


Godolpliin,  you  don't  know  the  boon 
it  would  be  to  us  !" 

"  I  would  give  it  you,  indeed  I 
would,  if  I  had  it,"  was  all  Maria 
could  answer. 

She  could  not  say  more  if  Mrs. 
Harding  stopped  until  night.  Mrs. 
Harding  became  at  last  convinced  of 
that  truth,  and  took  her  departure. 
Maria  sat  down  with  burning  eyes, 
— eyes  into  which  the  tears  would  not 
come. 

What  with  one  dropped  hint  and 
another,  she  had  grown  tolerably 
conversant  with  the  facts  patent  to  the 
world.  One  whisper  startled  her 
more  than  any  other.  It  concerned 
the  bonds  of  Lord  Averil.  What  was 
it  that  was  amiss  with  them  ?  That 
there  was  something,  and  something 
bad,  appeared  only  too  evident.  In 
her  terrible  state  of  suspense,  of  un- 
certainty, she  determined  to  inquire  of 
Thomas  Godolphin. 

Writing  a  few  words  on  a  slip  of 
paper,  she  sent  it  into  the  bank-par- 
lor. It  was  a  request  that  he  would 
see  her  before  he  left.  Thomas  sent 
back  a  verbal  message,  "  Very  well." 

It  was  growing  late  in  the  evening 
before  he  came  to  her.  What  a  day 
he  had  had  !  And  he  had  taken  no 
nourishment,  nothing  to  sustain  him. 
Maria  thought  of  that,  and  spoke. 

"  Let  me  get  you  something,"  she 
said.  "  Will  you  take  a  bit  of  dinner 
here,  instead  of  waiting  to  get  to  Ash- 
lydyat  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  in  token  of  re- 
fusal. "  It  is  not  much  dinner  that  I 
shall  eat  anywhere  to-day,  Maria. 
Did  you  wish  to  speak  to  me  ?" 

"  I  want — to — ask "  she  seemed 

to  gasp  for  breath,  and  waited  a  mo- 
ment for  greater  calmness.  "  Thomas," 
she  began  again,  going  close  to  him, 
and  speaking  almost  in  a  whisper, 
"what  is  it  that  is  being  said  about 
the  bonds  of  Lord  Averil  ?" 

Thomas  Godolphin  did  not  immedi- 
ately reply.  He  may  have  been  de- 
liberating whether  it  would  be  well  to 
tell  her, — perhaps,  whether  it  could 
be  kept  from  her.  Maria  seemed  to 
answer  the  thought. 


"  I  must  inevitably  know  it,"  she 
said,  striving  not  to  tremble  outwardly 
as  well  as  inwardly.  "Letter  that  I 
hear  it  from  you  than  from  others." 

He  thought  she  was  right, — that  the 
knowledge  must  inevitably  come  to 
her.  "  It  may  be  better  to  tell  you, 
Maria,"  he  said.  "  George  used  the 
bonds  for  his  own  purposes." 

A  dread  pause.  Maria's  throat 
was  working.  "  Then — it  must  have 
been  he  who  took  them  from  the 
strong-room  !" 

"  It  was." 

The  shivering  came  on  palpably 
now.  "  What  will  be  the  conse- 
quences ?"  she  breathed. 

"I  do  not  know.  I  dread  to  think. 
Lord  Averil  may  institute  a  prosecu- 
tion." 

Their  eyes  met.  Maria  controlled 
her  emotion  with  the  desperate  energy 
of  despair.  "  A — criminal — prosecu- 
tion ?" 

"It  is  in  his  power  to  do  it.  He 
has  not  been  near  me  to-day,  and  that 
looks  unfavorable." 

"  Does  he  know  it  yet, — that  it  was 
George  ?" 

"  He  must  know  it.  In  fact,  I  think 
it  likely  he  may  have  received  official 
notice  of  it  from  town.  The  report 
has  got  spread  from  thence,  and  that 
is  how  it  has  become  known  at  Prior's 
Ash." 

Maria  moistened  her  dry  lips,  and 
swallowed  down  the  lump  in  her 
throat  ere  she  could  speak.  "  Would 
it  be  safe  for  him  to  return  here  ?" 

"  If  he  does  return,  it  must  be  at 
the  risk  of  consequences." 

"  Thomas  ! — Thomas  !"  she  gasped, 
the  thought  occurring  to  her  with  a 
sort  of  shock,  "  is  he  in  hiding,  do  you 
think  ?" 

"  I  think  it  likely  that  he  is.  He 
gave  you  no  address,  it  seems  ;  neither 
has  he  sent  one  to  me." 

She  drew  back  to  the  wall  by  the 
mantelpiece,  and  leaned  against  it. 
Every  hour  seemed  to  bring  forth 
wrorse  and  worse.  Thomas  gazed 
with  compassion  on  the  haggardness 
that  was  seating  itself  on  her  sweet 
face.     She  was  less  able  to  cope  with 


316 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


this  misery  than  he.  He  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder,  speaking  in  a  low- 
tone  : 

"  It  is  a  fiery  trial  for  both  of  us, 
Maria, — one  hard  to  encounter.  God 
alone  can  help  us  to  bear  it.  Be  very 
sure  that  He  will  help  !" 

He  went  out,  taking  his  way  on 
foot  to  Ashlydyat.  There  was  greater 
grief  there,  if  possible,  than  at  the 
bank.  The  newrs,  touching  the  bonds, 
unhappily  afloat  at  Prior's  Ash,  had 
penetrated  an  hour  ago  to  Ashlydyat. 
Janet  and  Bessy  were  in  the  room 
when  he  entered.  Janet  lifted  her 
severe  face. 

"  Was  George  mad  ?"  she  asked, 
scarcely  above  a  whisper.  "  It  were 
better  that  he  had  been." 

Thomas  sat  down  wearily.  He  had 
heard  so  much  of  the  troubles  all  day 
that  a  little  respite  from  having  to 
speak  of  them  would  have  been  a 
merciful  relief. 

"Is  it  true  that  George  has  gone 
away  ?"  Bessy  asked. 

"lie  left  for  London  on  Saturday, 
Maria  says,"  was  the  reply  of  Thomas. 

"  Has  Maria  been  an  accomplice 
in  his  frauds  ?"  severely  resumed 
Janet. 

Thomas  turned  his  eyes  gravely 
upon  her.  Their  expression  was  suf- 
ficient answer.  "  Can  you  ask  it, 
Janet  ?  She  is  more  to  be  pitied  than 
any.  It  would  be  kind  if  one  of  you 
would  go  down  to  see  her  ;  she  seems 
very  lonely." 

"  I  cannot,"  said  Janet.  "I  should 
be  ashamed  for  people  to  see  my  face 
abroad  in  Prior's  Ash." 

"  I  will  go  to-morrow,"  interposed 
Bessy.  "  If  Prior's  Ash  looks  ask- 
ance at  me,  it  must.  What  has  hap- 
pened is  no  fault  of  mine,"  she 
added,  in  her  customary  matter-of-fact 
manner. 

"Will  the  firm  be  declared  bank- 
rupt ?"  resumed  Janet,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  have  been  expecting  news  of  it 
all  day,"  was  Thomas  Godolphin's 
answrer.     "  Nothing  can  avert  it." 

"  Will  they  bring  you  in  as  a  par- 
ticipator in  George's  crime  ?"  she 
asked,   her   voice   sounding   shrill   in 


her  great  sorrow.  "  Will  the  firm 
be  gone  against  generally  ? — or  only 
he  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing,"  answered  Thom- 
as, his  hand  shading  his  eyes  as  he 
spoke.  "  I  have  not  seen  Lord 
Averil.  It  rests  with  him.  One  thing 
I  have  felt  thankful  for  all  day,"  he 
added,  in  a  quicker  tone.  "  That 
Crosse's  name  was  legally  withdrawn  : 
otherwise  he  would  have  been  in  the 
ruin." 

Yes,  Mr.  Crosse  was  safe.  Safe 
from  consequences ;  and  at  the  pres- 
ent time  safe  from  hearing  of  the 
calamity.  Though  the  firm  was  still 
familiarly  called  Godolphin,  Crosse, 
and  Godolphin,  there  was  no  warranty 
for  it.  Mr.  Crosse's  money  and  name 
had  been  alike  withdrawn.  He  had 
invested  his  money  in  the  funds.  The 
small  balance  lodged  in  the  bank, 
was  a  mere  nothing,  though  he  did 
lose  it,  like  the  rest  of  the  depositors. 
He  was  staying  for  his  health  in  the 
south  of  France. 

"  /  am  thankful  for  one  thing, — 
that  my  father  did  not  live  to  see  it," 
returned  Janet.  "The  shock  would 
have  killed  him." 

"  Had  he  lived,  it  might  never  have 
happened,"  said  Thomas.  "  George 
would  probably  have  been  more 
cautious  in  all  ways,  with  him  to  be 
responsible  to.  And  my  father  might 
have  looked  more  keenly  into  things, 
than  I  have  done,  and  so  not  have 
afforded  the  opportunity  for  affairs  to 
turn  out  ill." 

Bessy  turned  to  him.  "  Surely. 
Thomas,  you  are  not  going  to  blame 
yourself  ?" 

"  No, —  only  at  moments.  Justly 
speaking,  blame  cannot  be  charged 
upon  me." 

Justly!  No,  justly  it  could  not. 
He  was  feeling  it  to  his  heart's  core 
as  he  recalled  the  reminiscences  of  the 
day,  the  reproaches  lavished  on  him. 
He  leaned  his  brow  upon  his  hand  like 
one  who  feels  a  pain  there. 

"  Oh,"  wailed  Janet,  breaking  the 
silence,  "  could  George  not  have  been 
contented  with  ruining  us  all,  with- 
out adding  to  it  this  disgrace  ?     WTe 


THE      SHADOW      OF     AS1ILYDYAT 


317 


could  have  borne  poverty ;  we  must 
bear  the  wresting  from  us  of  Ashly- 
dvat ;  but  how  shall  we  support  the 
stain  on  the  name  of  Godolphin  ?  I 
knew  that  ruin,  and  terrible  ruin,  could 
not  be  far  off ;  I  knew  it  by  the  warn- 
ings that  I  believe  came  in  mercy  to 
prepare  us  for  it;  but  I  did  not  cast 
a  thought  to  crime." 

"  What  has  Meta  been  doing  at 
Lady  Godolphin's  Folly  all  day  ?" 
asked  Bessy,  breaking  another  silence. 

Thomas  did  not  answer.  He  knew 
nothing  of  it ;  was  not  aware  she  had 
been  there.  Bessy  happened  to  cast 
her  eyes  to  the  window. 

"  Why  !  here  is  Lady  Sarah  Grame  !" 
she  exclaimed.  "  What  an  hour  for 
her  to  be  paying  visits  !" 

"I  cannot  see  her,"  said  Janet. 
"  I  wonder  she  should  intrude  here  to- 
day !" 

Lady  Sarah  Grame,  as  it  appeared, 
had  not  come  with  the  intention  of  in- 
truding on  Janet.  She  asked  for  Mr. 
Godolphin.  Thomas  proceeded  to  the 
room  where  she  had  been  shown. 
She  was  not  sitting,  but  pacing  to 
fro  in  it ;  and  she  turned  sharply 
round  and  met  him  as  he  entered,  her 
face  flushed  with  excitement. 

"  You  were  once  to  have  been  my 
son-in-law,"  she  said,  abruptly. 

Thomas,  astonished  at  the  address, 
invited  her  to  a  seat,  but  made  no 
immediate  reply.  She  would  not  take 
the  chair. 

"  I  cannot  sit,"  she  said.  "  Mr. 
Godolphin,  you  were  to  have  been 
my  son-in-law  :  you  would  have  been 
so  now  had  Ethel  lived.  Do  you  con- 
sider Ethel  to  be  any  link  between  us 
still  ?" 

He  was  quite  at  a  loss  what  to 
answer.  lie  did  not  understand  what 
she  meant.     Lady  Sarah  continued  : 

"  If  you  do  ;  if  you  retain  any  fond 
remembrance  of  Ethel,  you  will  prove 
it  now.  I  had  seven  hundred  pounds 
in  your  bank.  I  have  been  scraping 
and  saving  out  of  my  poor  yearly  in- 
come nearly  ever  since  Ethel  went ; 
and  I  had  placed  it  there.  Can  you 
deny  it  ?" 

"  Dear   Lady   Sarah,  what   is   the 


matter  ?"  he  asked  ;  for  her  excitement 
was  something  frightful.  "  I  know 
you  had  it  there.  Why  should  I 
deny  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  that's  right.  People  have  been 
saying  the  bank  was  going  to  repu- 
diate all  claims.  I  want  you  to  give 
it  me.     Now:  privately." 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  do  so, 

Lady  Sarah " 

"  I  cannot  lose  it :  I  have  been 
saving  it  up  for  my  poor  child,"  she 
interrupted,  in  a  most  excited  tone. 
"  She  will  not  have  much  when  I  am 
dead.  Would  you  be  so  cruel  as  to 
rob  the  widow  and  the  orphan  ?" 

"  Not  willingly.  Never  willingly," 
he  answered,  in  his  pain.  "I  had 
thought,  Lady  Sarah,  that  though  all 
the  world  misjudged  me,  you  would 
not." 

"  Could  you  not,  you  who  were  to 
have  married  Ethel,  have  given  me  a 
private  hint  of  it  when  you  found  the 
bank  was  going  wrong  ?  Others  may 
afford  to  lose  their  money,  but  I  can- 
not." 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  going 
wrong,"  he  said.  "  The  blow  has  fallen 
upon  me  as  unexpectedly  as  it  has 
upon  others." 

Lady  Sarah  Grame,  giving  vent  to 
one  of  the  fits  of  passionate  excite- 
ment to  which  she  had  all  her  life  been 
subject,  suddenly  flung  herself  upon 
her  knees  before  Thomas  Godolphin. 
She  implored  him  to  return  the  money, 
to  avert  "ruin"  from  Sarah  Anne: 
she  reproached  him  with  selfishness, 
with  dishonesty,  all  in  a  breath.  Can 
you  imagine  what  it  was  for  Thomas 
Godolphin  to  meet  this  1  Upright, 
gifted  with  lively  conscientiousness, 
tenderly  considerate  in  rendering  strict 
justice  to  others,  as  he  bad  been  all 
his  life,  these  unmerited  reproaches 
were  as  the  iron  entering  into  his 
soul. 

WThich  was  the  most  to  be  pitied, 
himself  or  Maria  ?  Thomas  had  called 
the  calamity  by  its  right  name, — a 
fiery  trial.  It  was  indeed  such  :  to 
him  and  to  her.  You,  who  read, 
cannot  picture  it.  How  he  got  rid  of 
Lady   Sarah,  he  could  scarcely  tell : 


318 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


he  believed  it  was  by  her  passion 
spending  itself  out.  She  was  com- 
pletely beside  herself  that  night,  al- 
most as  one  who  verges  on  insanity, 
and  Thomas  found  a  moment  to  ask 
himself  whether  that  ill-controlled 
woman  could  be  the  mother  of  gentle 
Ethel.  Her  loud  voice  and  its  re- 
proaches penetrated  to  the  household, 
— an  additional  drop  of  bitterness  in 
the  cup  of  the  master  of  Ashlydyat. 

But  we  must  go  back  to  Maria,  for 
it  is  with  her  this  evening  that  we 
have  most  to  do.  Between  seven  and 
eight  o'clock,  Miss  Meta  arrived,  at- 
tended by  Charlotte  Pain.  Meta  was 
in  the  highest  of  glee.  She  was  laden 
with  toys  and  sweatmeats ;  she  car- 
ried a  doll  as  big  as  herself,  she  had 
been  out  in  the  carriage,  she  had  had 
a  ride  on  Mrs.  Pain's  brown  horse, 
held  on  by  that  lady  ;  she  had  swung 
"  above  the  tops  of  the  trees ;"  and, 
more  than  all,  a  message  had  come 
from  the  keeper  of  the  clogs  in  the 
pit-hole,  to  say  that  they  were  never, 
never  coming  out  again. 

Charlotte  had  been  generously  kind 
to  the  child  ;  that  was  evident ;  and 
Maria  thanked  her  with  her  eyes 
and  heart.  As  to  paying  much  of 
thanks  in  words,  that  was  nearly  be- 
yond Maria  to-night. 

"  Where's  Margery  ?"  asked  Meta, 
in  a  hurry  to  show  off  her  treasures. 

Margery  had  not  returned.  And 
there  was  no  other  train  now  from  the 
direction  she  had  gone.  It  was  sup- 
posed that  she  had  missed  it,  and 
would  be  home  in  the  morning.  Meta 
drew  a  long  face  :  she  wanted  Mar- 
gery to  admire  the  doll. 

"  You  can  go  and  show  it  to  Harriet, 
dear,"  said  Maria.  "  She  is  in  the 
nursery."  And  Meta  flew  away,  drag- 
ging the  doll  and  as  many  other  in- 
cumbrances as  she  could  carry. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  George  ?" 
asked  Charlotte. 

"  It  is  Monday,"  replied  Maria,  in 
answer. 

"You  might  have  heard  by  the  day 
mail.  You  will  be  sure  to  hear  soon. 
Don't  fret  yourself  into  fiddlestrings. 


You  are  beginning  to  look  downright 
ill." 

Maria  made  no  reply.  She  would 
have  to  look  worse  yet,  for  this  was 
only  the  shadow  of  the  beginning. 
Charlotte  turned  and  glanced  round 
the  room. 

"  Have  those  bankruptcy-men  been 
here  ?" 

"  No.  I  have  seen  nothing  of  them. " 

"  Well  now,  there's  time  yet,  and 
do  for  goodness'  sake  let  me  save 
some  few  trifles  for  you,"  heartily  re- 
turned Charlotte.  "  I  am  quite  sure 
you  must  have  some  treasures  that  it 
would  be  grief  to  part  with.  I  have 
been  thinking  all  day  long  how  fool- 
ishly scrupulous  you  are." 

Maria  was  silent  for  a  minute. 
"  They  look  into  every  thing,  you 
say  ?"  she  asked. 

"Look  into  every  thing!"  echoed 
Charlotte.  "  I  should  think  they  do  ! 
That  would  be  little.  They"  take 
every  thing." 

Maria  left  the  room  and  came  back 
with  a  parcel  in  her  hand.  It  was  a 
very  small  trunk, — doll's  trunks  they 
are  sometimes  called, — covered  with 
red  morocco  leather,  with  a  miniature 
lock  and  key. 

"  I  would  save  this,"  she  said,  in  a 
whisper,  "  if  you  would  be  so  kind  as 
to  take  care  of  it  for  me.  I  should 
not  like  them  to  look  into  it.  It  can- 
not be  any  fraud,"  she  added,  in  a 
sort  of  apology  for  what  she  was  doing. 
"  The  things  inside  would  not  sell  for 
sixpence,  so  I  do  not  think  even  Mi'. 
Godolphin  would  be  angry  with  me." 

Charlotte  nodded,  took  up  her  dress, 
and  contrived  to  thrust  the  trunk  into 
a  huge  pocket  underneath  her  crino- 
line. "  I  put  it  on  on  purpose,"  she 
said,  alluding  to  the  pocket.  "  I 
thought  you  might  think  better  of  it 
by  this  evening.  But  this  is  nothing, 
Mrs.  George  Godolphin.  You  had 
better  give  me  something  else.  They'll 
be  in  to-morrow  morning  for  cei'tain." 

Maria  replied  that  she  had  nothing 
else  to  give,  and  Charlotte  rose,  saying 
she  should  come  or  send  for  Mleta 
asrain  on  the  morrow.     As  she  went 


THE     SHADOW      OP      ASIILYDYAT 


310 


out,  and  proceeded  up  Crosse  Street 
on  her  way  home,  she  tossed  her  head 
with  a  laugh. 

"  I  thought  she'd  come  to  !  As  if 
she'd  not  like  to  save  her  jewels  as 
other  people  do  1  She's  only  rather 
more  sly  over  it, — saying  what  she 
had  given  me  would  not  fetch  sixpence! 
You  may  tell  that  to  the  geese,  Mrs. 
George  Godolphin  !  I  should  like  to 
see  what's  inside.     I  think  I  will." 

And  Charlotte  put  her  wish  into 
action.  Upon  reaching  Lady  Godol- 
phin's  Folly,  she  flung  off  her  bonnet 
and  mantle,  gathered  together  all  the 
small  keys  in  the  house,  and  had  little 
difficulty  in  opening  the  simple  lock. 
The  contents  were  exposed  to  view. 
A  lock  of  hair  of  each  of  her  children 
who  had  died,  wrapped  in  separate 
pieces  of  paper,  with  the  age  of  the 
child  and  the  date  of  its  death  written 
respectively  outside.  A  golden  lock 
of  Meta's  ;  a  fair  curl  of  George's ; 
half  a  dozen  of  his  letters  to  her, 
written  in  the  short  space  of  time  that 
intervened  between  their  engagement 
and  their  marriage,  and  a  sort  of 
memorandum  of  their  engagement. 
"  I  was  this  day  engaged  to  George 
Godolphin.  I  pray  God  to  render  me 
worthy  of  him  !  to  be  to  him  a  loving 
and  dutiful  wife." 

Charlotte's  eyes  opened  to  their  ut- 
most width,  but  there  was  nothing  else 
to  see ;  nothing  save  the  printed  paper 
with  which  the  trunk  was  lined.  "Is 
she  a  fool,  that  Maria  Godolphin  !" 
ejaculated  Charlotte.  Certainly  that 
were  not  the  class  of  things  that  Mrs. 
Pain  would  have  saved  from  a  bank- 
ruptcy. And  she  solaced  her  feelings 
by  reading  Mr.  George's  letters. 

No,  Maria  was  not  a  fool.  Better 
that  she  had  come  under  that  denomi- 
nation just  now,  for  she  would  have 
felt  her  position  less  keenly.  Char- 
lotte, perhaps,  might  have  found  it 
difficult  to  believe,  had  she  been  told, 
that  Maria  Godolphin  was  one  of 
those  who  are  sensitively  intellectual, 
to  a  degree  that  Mistress  Charlotte 
herself  could  form  little  notion  of. 

It  is  upon  these  highly  endowed 
natures  that  sorrow  tells.     And  the 


sorrow  must  be  borne  in  silence.  In 
the  midst  of  her  great  misery,  so  great 
as  to  be  almost  irrepressible,  Maria 
contrived  to  maintain  a  calm  exterior 
to  the  world,  even  to  Charlotte  and 
her  outspoken  sympathy.  The  first 
tears  that  had  been  wrung  from  her 
she  shed  that  night  over  Meta.  When 
the  child  came  to  her  for  her  good- 
night kiss,  and  to  say  her  prayers, 
Maria  was  utterly  unhinged.  Sbd 
clasped  the  little  thing  to  her  heart 
and  burst  into  a  storm  of  sobs.  Meta 
was  frightened. 

Mamma  I  mamma  !  What  was  the 
matter  with  mamma  ? 

Maria  was  unable  to  answer.  The 
sobs  were  choking  her.  Was  the 
child's  inheritance  going  to  be  that  of 
shame  ?  Maria  had  grieved  bitterly 
when  her  other  children  died :  she 
was  almost  feeling  that  it  might  have 
been  a  mercy  had  this  dear  one  also 
been  taken.  She  covered  the  little 
face  with  kisses  as  she  held  it  against 
her  beating  heart.  Presently  she 
grew  calm  enough  to  speak. 

"  Mamma's  not  well  this  evening, 
darling." 

Once  more,  as  on  the  previous 
nights,  Maria  had  to  drag  herself  up 
to  her  weary  bed.  As  she  fell  upon 
her  knees  by  the  bedside,  she  seemed 
to  pray  almost  against  faith  and  hope. 
"  Father  !  all  things  are  possible  to 
Thee.  Be  with  me  in  Thy  mercy 
this  night,  and  help  me  to  pass 
through  it !" 

She  saw  not  how  she  should  pass 
through  it.  Oh,  when  will  the  night 
be  gone  !  broke  incessantly  from  her 
bruised  heart.  Bitterly  cold,  as  be- 
fore, was  she  ;  a  sensation  of  chilly 
trembling  was  in  every  limb  ;  but  her 
head  and  brain  seemed  burning,  her 
lips  were  dry,  and  that  painful  nerv- 
ous affection,  the  result  of  excessive 
anguish,  was  attacking  her  throat. 
Maria  had  never  yet  experienced  that, 
and  thought  she  was  about  to  be  visit- 
ed by  some  strange  malady.  It  was 
a  dreadful  night  of  pain,  of  apprehen- 
sion, of  cold;  inwardly  and  outwardly 
she  trembled  as  she  lay  through  it. 
One   terrible  word   kept   beating   its 


320 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


sound  on  the  room's  air, — transporta- 
tion. Was  her  husband  in  danger  of 
it  ?  Just  before  daylight  she  dropped 
asleep,  and  for  half  an  hour  slept 
heavily ;  but  with  the  full  dawn  of 
day  she  was  awake  again.  Not  for 
the  first  minute  was  she  conscious  of 
reality  ;  but,  the  next,  the  full  tide  of 
recollection  had  burst  upon  her.  With 
a  low  cry  of  despair,  she  leaped  from 
her  bed,  and  began  pacing  the  carpet, 
all  but  unable  to  support  the  surging 
waves  of  mental  anguish  which  rose 
up  one  by  one  and  threatened  to  over- 
master her  reason.  Insanity,  had  it 
come  on,  might  have  been  then  more 
of  a  relief  than  a  calamity  to  Maria 
Godolphin. 

"  How  shall  I  live  through  the  day  ? 
how  shall  I  live  through  the  day?" 
were  the  words  that  broke  from  her 
lips.  And  she  fell  down  by  the  bed- 
side, and  lifted  her  hands  and  her 
heart  on  high,  and  wailed  out  a  cry 
to  God  to  help  her  to  get  through  it. 
Of  her  own  strength,  she  truly  be- 
lieved that  she  could  not, 

She  would  certainly  have  need  of 
some  help,  if  she  were  to  bear  it 
patiently.  At  seven  o'clock  a  peal 
of  muffled  bells  burst  over  the  town, 
deafening  her  ears.  Some  mauvais 
sujets,  discontented  sufferers,  had  gone 
to  the  belfry  of  St.  Mark's  Church,  and 
set  them  ringing  for  the  calamity  which 
had  overtaken  Prior's  Ash,  in  the  stop- 
page of  the  house  of  Godolphin. 


CHAPTER  L. 

"she's  as  fine  as  a  queen!" 

"  Is  Mrs.  George  Godolphin  with- 
in ?" 

The  inquiry  came  from  Grace  Ake- 
man.  She  put  it  in  a  sharp,  angry 
tone,  something  like  the  sharp  and 
angry  peal  she  had  just  rung  on  the 
hall-bell.  Pierce  answered  in  the 
adirmative,  and  showed  her  in. 

The  house  seemed  gloomy  and  still, 
as  one  in  a  state  of  bankruptcy  does 


seem.  Mrs.  Akeman  thought  so  as 
she  crossed  the  hall.  The  days  had 
gone  on  to  the  Thursday,  the  bank- 
ruptcy had  been  declared,  and  those 
pleasant  visitors,  foretold  by  Charlotte 
Pain,  had  entered  on  their  duties  at 
the  bank  and  at  Ashlydyat.  Fear- 
fully ill  looked  Maria :  dark  circles 
had  formed  under  her  eyes,  her  face 
had  lost  its  bloom,  and  an  expression 
as  of  some  ever-present  dread  had 
seated  itself  upon  her  features.  When 
Pierce  opened  the  door  to  usher  in  her 
sister,  she  started  palpably. 

Things,  with  regard  to  George  Go- 
dolphin, remained  as  they  were.  He 
had  not  made  his  appearance  at 
Prior's  Ash,  and  Thomas  did  not 
know  where  to  write  to  him.  Maria 
did.  She  had  heard  from  him  on  the 
Tuesday  morning.  His  letter  was 
written  apparently  in  the  gayest  of 
spirits.  The  contrast  that  was  pre- 
sented between  his  state  of  mind  (if 
the  tone  of  the  letter  might  be  trusted) 
and  Maria's,  was  something  marvel- 
ous,— a  ouriosity  in  metaphysics,  as 
pertaining  to  the  spiritual  organiza- 
tion of  humanity.  He  sent  gay  mes- 
sages to  Meta,  he  sent  teazing  ones  to 
Margery,  he  never  so  much  as  hinted 
to.  Maria  that  he  had  a  knowledge  of 
any  thing  being  wrong.  He  should 
soon  be  home,  he  said  ;  but  meanwhile 
Maria  was  to  write  him  word  all  news, 
and  address  the  letter  under  cover  to 
Mr.Yerrall.  But  she  was  not  to  give 
that  address  to  any  one.  George  Go- 
dolphin knew  he  could  rely  upon  the 
good  faith  of  his  wife.  He  wrote  also 
to  his  brother, — a  letter  which  Thomas 
burnt  as  soon  as  read.  Probably  it 
was  intended  for  his  eye  alone.  But 
he  expressed  no  wish  to  hear  from 
Thomas ;  neither  did  he  say  how  a 
letter  might  reach  him.  He  may  have 
felt  himself  in  the  light  of  a  guilty 
schoolboy,  wmo  knows  he  merits  a 
lecture,  and  would  escape  from  it  as 
long  as  may  be.  Maria's  suspense 
was  nearly  unbearable, — and  Lord 
Averil  had  given  no  sign  of  what  his 
intentions  might  be. 

Seeing  it  was  .her  sister  who  entered, 
she  turned  to  her  with  a  sort  of  relief. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDY A T , 


321 


"  Oh,  Grace  !"  she  said,  "  I  thought  I 
was  never  going  to  see  any  of  you 
again." 

Grace  would  not  meet  the  offered 
hand.  Never  much  given  to  cere- 
mony, she  often  came  in  and  went  out 
without  giving  hers.  But  this  time 
Grace  had  come  in  anger.  She  blamed 
Maria  for  what  had  occurred,  almost 
as  much  as  she  blamed  George.  Not 
of  the  highly  refined  order  of  intellect 
which  characterized  Maria,  Grace  pos- 
sessed far  keener  penetration.  Had 
her  husband  been  going  wrong,  Grace 
would  inevitably  have  discovered  it ; 
and  she  could  not  believe  but  that 
Maria  must  have  suspected  George 
Godolphin.  In  her  angry  feeling 
against  George,  whom  she  had  never 
liked,  Grace  would  have  deemed  it 
right  that  Maria  should  denounce 
him.  Whether  she  had  been  willfully 
blind,  or  really  blind,  Grace  alike  de- 
spised her  for  it.  "  I  shall  not  spare 
her  when  I  see  her,"  Grace  had  said 
to  her  husband  ;  and  she  did  not  mean 
to  spare  her,  now  she  had  come. 

"  I  have  intruded  here  to  ask  if  you 
will  go  to  the  rectory  and  see  mamma," 
Grace  began.  "  She  is  not  well,  and 
cannot  come  to  you." 

Grace's  manner  was  strangely  cold 
and  stern.  And  Maria  did  not  like 
the  word  "  intruded."  "  I  am  glad  to 
see  you,"  she  replied  in  a  gentle  voice. 
"  It  is  very  dull  here  now.  Nobody 
has  been  near  me,  except  Bessy  Go- 
dolphin." 

"  You  cannot  expect  many  visitors," 
said  Grace,  in  her  hard  manner, — very 
hard  to-day. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  could  see  them 
if  they  came,"  was  Maria's  answer. 
"  I  was  not  speaking  of  visitors.  Is 
mamma  ill  ?" 

"  Yes  she  is  ;  and  little  wonder,"  re- 
plied Grace.  "  I  almost  wish  I  was 
not  married,  now  this  misfortune  has 
fallen  upon  us :  it  would  at  any  rate 
be  another  pair  of  hands  in  the  rec- 
tory, and  I  am  more  capable  of  work 
than  is  mamma  or  Rose.  But  I  am 
married,  and  of  course  my  place  must 
be  my  husband's  home." 
20 


"  What  do  you  mean  by  another 
pair  of  hands,  Grace  ?" 

"  There  are  going  to  be  changes  at 
the  rectory,"  returned  Grace,  storing 
at  the  wall  behind  Maria,  apparently 
to  avoid  looking  at  her.  "One  ser- 
vant only  is  to  be  retained,  and  the 
two  little  Chisholm  girls  are  coming 
there  to  be  kept  and  educated.  Mamma 
will  have  all  the  care  upon  her;  she 
and  Rose  must  both  work  and  teach. 
Papa  will  keep  the  little  boy  at  school, 
and  have  him  home  in  the  holidays, 
to  make  more  trouble  at  the  rectorv. 
They,  papa  and  mamma,  will  have  to 
pinch  and  screw;  they  must  deprive 
themselves  of  every  comfort ;  bare 
necessaries  alone  must  be  theirs  ;  and 
all  that  can  be  saved  from  their  in- 
come will  be  put  by  towards  repaying 
the  trust-money." 

"  Is  this  decided  ?"  asked  Maria,  in 
a  low  tone. 

"  It  is  decided,  so  far  as  papa  can 
decide  any  thing,"  sharply  rejoined 
Grace.  "  If  the  law  is  put  in  force 
against  him  by  his  co-trustee,  for  the 
recovery  of  the  money,  he  does  not 
know  what  he  would  do.  Possibly 
the  living  would  have  to  be  seques- 
tered." 

Maria  did  not  speak.  What  Grace 
was  saying  was  all  too  true  and  terri- 
ble. Grace  flung  up  her  hand  with  a 
passionate  movement. 

"  Had  I  been  the  one  to  bring  this 
upon  my  father  and  mother,  Maria,  I 
should  wish  I  had  been  out  of  the 
world  before  it  had  been  done." 

"  I  did  not  bring  it  upon  them, 
Grace,"  was  Maria's  scarcely-breathed 
answer. 

"  Yes,  you  did.  Maria,  I  have 
come  here  to  speak  my  mind,  and  I 
must  speak  it.  How  could  you,  for 
shame,  let  papa  pay  in  that  money, 
the  nine  thousand  pounds  ?  If  you 
and  George  Godolphin  must  havt- 
flaunted  your  state  and  your  expense 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Avorld,  and  ruined 
people  to  do  it,  you  might  have  spared 
your  father  and  mother." 

"  Grace,  why  do  you  blame  me  ?" 

Mrs.  Akeman  rose  from  her  chair 


200 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


and  began  pacing  the  room.  She  did 
not  speak  in  a  loud  tone, — not  so  much 
in  an  angry  one  as  in  a  clear,  sharp, 
decisive  one  :  very  much  like  the  tone 
used  by  the  rector  of  All  Souls'  when 
in  his  cynical  moods. 

"  He  has  been  a  respected  man 
all  his  life  ;  he  has  kept  up  his  posi- 
tion  " 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ?"  inter- 
rupted Maria,  really  not  sure  whether 
she  was  applying  the  words  satirically 
to  George  Godolphin. 

"  Of  whom  do  I  speak  !"  retorted 
Grace.  "  Of  your  father  and  mine. 
I  say  he  has  been  a  respected  man  all 
his  life  ;  has  maintained  his  position 
as  a  clergyman  and  a  gentleman  ;  has 
reared  his  children  suitably  ;  has  ex- 
ercised moderate  hospitality  at  the 
rectory,  and  yet  was  putting  some- 
thing by,  that  we  might  have  a  few 
pounds  each  at  his  death,  to  help  us 
on  in  the  world.  Not  one  of  his  chil- 
dren but  wants  helping  on,  save  the 
grand  wife  of  Mr.  George  Godolphin." 
~  "Grace!  Grace!" 

**  And  what  have  you  brought  him 
to  ?"  continued  Grace,  lifting  her  hand 
in  token  that  she  would  have  out  her 
say.  "To  poverty  in  his  old  age, — he 
is  getting  old,  Maria, — to  trouble,  to 
care,  to  privation  ;  perhaps  to  disgrace 
as  a  false  trustee.  /  would  have  sac- 
rificed my  husband,  rather  than  my 
father." 

Maria  lifted  her  aching  head.  The 
reproaches  were  cruel ;  and  yet  they 
told  home.  It  was  her  husband  who 
had  ruined  her  father,  and,  it  may  be 
said,  ruined  him  deliberately.  Grace 
resumed,  answering  the  last  thought 
almost  as  if  she  had  divined  it. 

"  If  ever  a  shameless  fraud  was 
committed  upon  another,  George  Go- 
dolphin willfully  committed  it  when  he 
took  that  nine  thousand  pounds.  Pri- 
or's Ash  may  well  be  calling  him  a 
swindler!" 

"  Oh,  Grace,  don't !"  she  said,  im- 
ploringly. "  He  could  not  have  known 
that  it  was  unsafe  to  take  it." 

Whatever  his  faults,  it  was  Ma- 
ria's duty  to  defend  him  against  the 
world. 


"  Could  not  have  known  !"  indig- 
nantly returned  Grace.  "  You  are 
either  a  fool,  Maria,  or  you  are  de- 
liberately saying  what  you  know  to  be 
untrue.  You  must  be  aware  that  he 
never  entered  it  in  the  books  ;  that  he 
appropriated  it  to  his  own  use.  He 
is  a  heartless,  bad  man  !  He  might 
have  chosen  somebody  else  to  play 
upon,  rather  than  his  wife's  father. 
Were  I  papa,  1  should  prosecute 
him." 

"  Grace,  you  are  killing  me,"  wailed 
Maria.  "  Don't  you  think  I  have 
enough  to  bear  ?" 

"  I  make  no  doubt  you  have.  T 
should  be  sorry  to  have  to  bear  the 
half.  But  you  have  brought  it  upon 
yourself,  Maria.  What  though  George 
Godolphin  was  your  husband,  you 
need  not  have  upheld  him  in  his 
course.  Look  at  the  ruin  that  has 
fallen  upon  Prior's  Ash  !  I  can  tell 
you  that  your  name  and  George  Go- 
dolphin's  will  be  remembered  for  many 
a  long  day.  But  it  won't  be  with  a 
blessing  !" 

"  Grace,"  she  said,  lifting  her  stream- 
ing eyes,  for  tears  had  at  length  come 
to  her  relief,  "  have  you  no  pity  for 
me?" 

"  What  pity  have  you  had  for 
others  ?"  was  Grace  Akeman's  retort. 
"  How  many  must  go  down  to  their 
graves  steeped  in  poverty,  who,  but 
for  George  Godolphin's  treachery, 
would  have  passed  the  rest  of  their 
lives  in  comfort !  You  have  been  a 
blind  simpleton,  and  nothing  else. 
George  Godolphin  has  lavished  his 
money  and  his  attentions  broadcast 
elsewhere,  and  you  have  looked  com- 
placently on.  Do  you  think  Prior's 
Ash  has  had  its  eyes  closed,  as  you 
have  ?  But  it  ought  to  have  told 
what  was  gathering." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Grace  f" 

"  Never  mind  what  I  mean,"  was 
Grace's  answer.  "  I  am  not  going  to 
tell  you  what  you  might  have  Keen 
for  yourself.  It  is  all  of  a-piece.  If 
people  will  marry  gay  and  attractive 
men  they  must  pay  for  it." 

Maria  remained  silent.  Grace  also 
for   a   time.      Then    she   ceased    her 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


323 


walking,  and  sat  down  opposite  her 
sister. 

"  I  came  to  ask  you  whether  it  is 
not  your  intention  to  go  down  and 
see  mamma.  She  is  in  bed, — suffer- 
ing from  a  violent  cold,  she  says. 
/  know, — suffering  from  anguish  of 
mind.  If  you  would  not  add  ingrati- 
tude to  what  has  passed,  you  will  pay 
her  a  visit  to-day.  She  wishes  to  see 
you." 

"  I  will  go,"  said  Maria.  But  as 
she  spoke  the  words  the  knowledge 
that  it  would  be  a  fearful  trial — the 
showing  herself  in  the  streets  of  the 
town — was  very  present  to  her.  "  I 
will  go  to-da3r,  Grace." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Grace,  rising ; 
"  that's  all  I  came  for." 

"  Not  quite  all,  Grace.  You  came, 
I  think,  to  make  me  more  unhappy 
than  I  was." 

"  I  cannot  gloss  over  facts ;  it  is 
not  in  my  nature,"  was  the  reply  of 
Grace.  "  If  black  is  black,  I  must 
call  it  black ;  and  white,  white.  I 
have  not  said  all  I  could  say,  Maria. 
I  have  not  spoken  of  our  loss  ;  a  very 
paltry  one,  but  a  good  deal  to  us.  I 
have  not  alluded  to  other  and  worse 
rumors,  touching  your  husband.  I 
have  spoken  of  the  ruin  brought  on 
our  father  and  mother,  and  I  hold  you 
nearly  as  tesponsible  for  it  as  George 
Godolphin.  Where's  Meta?"  she 
added,  after  a  short  pause. 

"At  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly.  Mrs. 
Pain  has  been  very  kind " 

Grace  turned  sharply  round.  "And 
you  can  let  her  go  there!" 

"  Mrs.  Pain  has  been  kind,  I  say, 
in  coming  for  her.  This  is  but  a  dull 
house  now  for  Meta.  Margery  went 
out  on  Monday,  and  has  been  de- 
tained by  her  sister's  illness." 

"  Let  Meta  come  to  me  if  you  want 
to  get  her  out,"  returned  Grace,  in  a 
tone  more  stern  than  any  that  had 
gone  before  it.  "  If  you  knew  the 
free  comments  indulged  in  by  the 
public,  you  would  not  let  a  child  of 
yours  be  at  Lord  Godolphin's  Folly, 
while  Charlotte  Pain  inhabits  it." 

Somehow,  Maria  had  not  the  cour- 
age to  inquire  more  particularly  as  to 


the  "  comments :"  it  was  a  subject 
that  she  shrank  from,  though  vague 
and  uncertain  at  the  best.  Mrs.  Ake- 
man  went  out,  and  Maria,  the  strings 
of  her  grief  loosened,  sat  down  and 
cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

With  quite  a  sick  feeling  of  dread 
she  dressed  herself  to  go  to  the  rec- 
tory. But  not  until  later  in  the  day. 
She  put  it  off,  and  put  it  off,  with  some 
faint  wish,  foolish  and  vain,  that  dusk 
would  forestall  its  usual  hour  of  ap- 
proach. The  western  sun,  drawing 
towards  its  setting,  streamed  full  on 
the  street  of  Prior's  Ash  as  she 
walked  down  it, — walked  down  it, 
almost  like  a  criminal,  her  black  vail 
over  her  face,  flushed  with  its  sensi- 
tive dread.  Nobody  but  herself  knew 
how  she  shrunk  from  the  eyes  of  her 
fellow-creatures. 

She  might  have  ordered  the  close 
carriage  and  gone  down  in  it, — for 
the  carriages  and  horses  were  yet  at 
her  disposal  for  use.  But  that,  to 
Maria,  would  have  been  worse.  To 
go  out  in  state  in  her  carriage,  at- 
tended by  her  men-servants,  would 
have  seemed  more  brazenly  defiant  of 
public  feelings  than  to  appear  on  foot. 
Were  these  feelings  ultra-sensitive  ? 
absurd  ?     Not  altogether. 

"  Look  at  her,  walking  there !  She's 
as  fine  as  a  queen !"  The  words,  in  an 
insolent,  sneering  tone,  taught  her  ear 
as  she  passed  a  group — a  low  group — 
gathered  at  the  corner  of  a  street. 
They  would  not  be  likely  to  come  from 
any  other.  That  they  were  directed  to 
her  there  was  no  doubt;  and  Maria's 
ears  tingled  as  she  hastened  on. 

Was  she  so  fine  ?  she  could  not  help 
asking  herself.  She  had  put  on  the 
plainest  things  she  had, — a  black  silk 
dress  and  a  black  mantle,  a  white  silk 
bonnet  and  the  black  vail.  All  good 
things,  certainly,  but  plain,  and  not 
new.  She  began  to  feel  that  re- 
proaches were  cast  to  her  which  she 
did  not  deserve:  but  they  were  not 
the  less  telling  upon  her  heart. 

Did  she  dread  going  into  the  rectory? 
Did  she  dread  the  reproaches  she 
might  be  met  with  there  ? — the  cold- 
ness ?  the  slights  ?     If  so,  she  did  not 


524 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


find  them.  She  was  met  by  the  most 
considerate  kindness,  and  perhaps  it 
wrung  her  heart  all  the  more. 

They  had  seen  her  coming,  and 
Hose  ran  forward  to  meet  her  in  the 
hall,  and  kissed  her ;  Reginald  came 
boisterously  out  with  a  welcome,  a 
chart  in  one  hand,  parallel-rulers  and 
a  pair  of  compasses  in  the  other :  he 
was  making  a  pretence  of  pricking  off 
a  ship's  place  in  the  chart.  The 
rector  and  Isaac  were  not  at  home. 

"Is  mamma  in  bed?"  she  asked  of 
Hose. 

"  Yes  ;  but  her  cold  is  better  this 
evening.  She  will  be  so  glad  to  see 
you." 

Maria  went  up  the  stairs  and  entered 
the  room  alone.  The  anxious  look  of 
eare,  of  trouble,  on  Mrs.  Hastings's 
face,  its  feverish  hue,  struck  her  forci- 
bly, as  she  advanced  timidly,  uncer- 
tain of  her  reception.  Uncertain  of 
the  reception  of  a  mother?  With  an 
eagerly  fond  look,  a  rapid  gesture  of 
love,  Mrs.  Hastings  drew  Maria's  face 
down  to  her  for  an  embrace. 

It  unhinged  Maria.  She  fell  on  her 
knees  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  gave 
vent  to  a  passipnate  flood  of  tears. 
"Oh  mother,  mother,  I  could  not  help 
it!"  she  wailed.  "It  has  been  no 
fault  of  mine." 

Mrs.  Hastings  did  not  speak.  She 
laid  her  arm  round  Maria's  neck,  and 
let  it  rest  there.  But  the  sobs  redou- 
bled. 

"  Don't,  child!"  she  said  then.  "You 
will  make  yourself  ill.  My  poor 
child  !" 

"  I  am  ill,  mamma.  I  think  I  shall 
never  be  well  again,"  sobbed  Maria, 
forgetting  some  of  her  reticence.  "  I 
feel  sometimes  that  it  would  be  a  relief 
to  die." 

"  Hush,  my  love.  Keep  despair 
from  you,  whatever  you  do." 

"  I  could  bear  it  better  but  for  the 
thought  of  you  and  papa.  That  is 
killing  me.  Indeed,  indeed  I  have 
not  deserved  the  blame  thrown  upon 
me.  I  knew  nothing  of  what  was 
happening." 

"  My  dear,  we  have  not  blamed 
you." 


"  Oh,  yes,  everybody  blames  me  !" 
wailed  Maria.  "And  I  know  how  sad 
it  is  for  you  all  to  suffer  by  us.  It 
breaks  my  heart  to  think  of  it.  Mam- 
ma, do  you  know  I  dreamt  last  night 
that  a  great  shower  of  gold  was  fall- 
ing down  to  me  faster  than  I  could 
catch  it  in  my  two  hands.  Such  heaps 
of  sovereigns  !  I  thought  I  was  go- 
ing to  pay  eveiwbody,  and  I  ran  away 
laughing, — oh,  so  glad  !  and  held  out 
some  to  papa.  '  Take  them,'  I  said  to 
him,  '  they  are  slipping  through  my 
fingers.'  I  fell  down  when  I  was 
close  to  him,  and  awoke.  I  awoke — 
and — then" — she  could  scarcely  speak 
for  sobs — "I  remembered.  Mamma, 
but  for  Meta,  I  should  have  been  glad 
in  that  moment  to  die." 

The  emotion  of  both  was  very 
great,  nearly  overpowering  Maria. 
Mrs.  Hastings  could  not  say  much  of 
comfort,  she  was  too  prostrated  her- 
self. Anxious  as  she  had  been  to  see 
Maria, — for  she  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  her  being  left  alone  and 
unnoticed  in  her  distress, — she  almost 
repented  havingsent  for  her.  Neither 
was  strong  enough  to  bear  this  excess 
of  agitation. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  of  George 
Godolphin.  Mrs.  Hastings  did  not 
mention  him  ;  Maria  could  not.  The 
rest  of  the  interview  was  nrbstly  spent 
in  silence,  Maria  holding  her  mother's 
hand,  and  giving  way  to  a  rising  sob 
now  and  then.  Into  the  affairs  of  the 
bank  Mrs.  Hastings  felt  that  she  could 
not  enter.  There  must  be  a  wall  of 
silence  between  them  on  that  point,  as 
on  the  subject  of  George. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  as  she 
went  down,  she  met  her  father.  "  Oh, 
is  it  you,  Maria  !"  he  said.  "  How  are 
you  ?" 

His  tone  was  a  kind  one.  But  Ma- 
ria's heai't  was  full,  and  she  could  not 
answer.  He  turned  into  the  room  by 
which  they  were  standing,  and  she 
went  in  after  him. 

"When  is  your  husband  coming 
back  ?     I  suppose  you  don't  know  ?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  obliged  to  con- 
fess to  it. 

"  My  opinion  is,  it  would  be  better 


THE     SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


325 


for  him  to  face  it  than  to  remain 
away,"  said  the  rector.  "A  more 
honorable  course,  at  any  rate." 

Still  there  was  no  reply.  And  Mr. 
Hastings  looking  at  his  daughter's  face 
in  the  twilight  of  the  evening,  saw 
that  it  was  working  with  emotion, — 
that  she  was  striving,  almost  in  vain, 
to  repress  her  feelings. 

"  It  must  be  very  dull  for  you  at  the 
bank  now,  Maria,"  he  resumed,  in  a 
more  gentle  tone  than  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  using  to  anybody  :  "  dull  and 
unpleasant.  Will  you  come  to  the 
rectory  for  a  week  or  two,  and  bring 
Met  a  ?" 

The  tears  streamed  from  her  eyes 
then,  unredressed.  "  Thank  you,  papa  ! 
thank  you  for  all  your  kindness,"  she 
answered,  striving  not  to  choke. 
"  But  I  must  stay  at  home  as  long  as 
I  may." 

She  turned  again  to  the  hall,  mur- 
muring something  to  the  effect  that  it 
was  late,  and  she*  must  be  departing. 
"  Who  is  going  to  walk  with  you  ?" 
asked  the  rector. 

"  I  will,"  cried  out  Reginald,  who 
heard  the  question,  and  came  forth 
from  another  room. 

They  departed  together.  Reginald 
talking  gayly,  as  if  there  "were  not  such 
a  thing  as  care  in  the  world, — Maria 
unable  to  answer  him.  The  pain  in 
her  throat  was  worse  than  usual  then. 
In  turning  out  at  the  rectory-gate, 
whom  should  they  come  upon  but  old 
Jekyl,  walking  slowly  along,  nearly 
bent  double  with  rheumatism.  Regi- 
nald accosted  him. 

"  Why,  old  Jekyl  !  it's  never  you  ! 
A  re  you  in  the  land  of  the  living  yet  ?" 

"Ay,  it's  me,  sir.  Old  bones  don't 
get  laid  so  easy, — in  spite,  maybe,  of 
their  wishing  it.  Ma'am,"  added  the 
old  man,  turning  to  Maria,  "  I'd  like 
to  make  bold  to  say  a  word  to  you. 
That  sixty  pound  of  mine,  what  was 
put  in  the  bank, — you  mind  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Maria,  faintly. 

"  The  losing  of  it  '11  be  just  dead 
ruin  to  me,  ma'am.  I  lost  my  bees 
last  summer,  as  you  heard  on,  and 
that  bit  o'  money  was  all,  like,  I  had 
to  look  to.     One  must  have  a  crust  o' 


bread  and  a  sup  o'  tea,  as  long  as  it 
pleases  the  Almighty  to  keep  one 
above  ground.  One  can't  lie  down 
and  clam.  Would  you  be  pleased  just, 
to  say  a  word  to  the  gentlemen,  that 
that  trifle  o'  money  mayn't  be  lost  to 
me  ?  Mr.  Godolphin  will  listen  to 
you." 

Maria  scarcely  knew  what  to  an- 
swer. She  had  not  the  courage  to 
tell  him  the  money  was  lost ;  she  did 
not  like  to  raise  unjustifiable  hopes  by 
saying  it  might  be  saved. 

Old  Jekyl  interpreted  the  hesitation 
wrongly.  "  It  was  you  yourself, 
ma'am,  as  advised  my  putting  it  there ; 
for  myself,  I  shouldn't  have  had  a 
thought  on't :  surely  you  won't  object 
to  say  a  word  for  me,  that  I  mayn't, 
lose  it  now.  My  two  sons,  David  and 
Jonathan,  come  home  one  day  when 
they  had  been  a-working  at  your 
house,  and  telled  me,  both  of  'em,  that 
you  recommended  me  to  take  my 
money  to  the  bank, — that  it  would  be 
safe  and  sure.  I  can't  afford  to  lose 
it,"  he  added,  in  a  pitiful  tone  ;  "it's 
all  my  subsistence  on  this  side  o'  the 
grave." 

"  Of  course  she'll  speak  to  them, 
Jekyl,"  interposed  Reginald,  answer- 
ing for  Maria  just  as  freely  and  lightly 
as  he  would  have  answered  for  him- 
self. "  I'll  speak  to  Mr.  George  Go- 
dolphin  myself  when  he  comes  home  ; 
I  don't  mind  ;  I  can  say  any  thing  to 
him.  It  would  be  too  bad  for  you  to 
lose  it.  Good-evening.  Don't  go 
pitch-falling  over  !  You  have  not  got 
your  sea-legs  on  to-night." 

The  feeble  old  man  continued  his 
way,  a  profusion  of  hearty  thanks 
breaking  from  him.  They  fell  on 
Maria's  heart  like  a  knell.  Old  Jekyl's 
money  had  as  surely  gone  as  had  the 
rest !  And  but  for  her,  it  might  never 
have  been  placed  in  the  bank  of  the 
Godolpbins. 

She  turned  to  drag  herself  home 
again,  there  to  pass  her  usual  night  of 
pain, — to  wail  out,  on  retiring  to  her 
chamber,  "  Oh,  when  will  the  night 
be  gone  ?"  To  rise  in  the  morning  to 
the  anguished  cry,  "  How  shall  I  live 
through  the  day  ?" 


326 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

MARGERY'S   TONGUE   LET   LOOSE. 

The  streets  were  lighted  in  Prior's 
Ash,  and  people  passed  to  and  fro  in 
them  on  their  evening  occupations. 
Two  there  were  walking  together — 
a  lady,  and  a  young  man  dressed  in  a 
sailor's  jacket — who  seemed  by  their 
pace  to  be  in  a  hurry.  The  lady  ap- 
peared to  wish  to  shun  observation, 
for  she  bent  her  face  underneath  her 
vail,  and  kept,  so  far  as  might  be,  in 
the  shade.  You  need  not  be  told  that 
they  were  Maria  Godolphin  and 
Reginald  Hastings.  He  swung  along, 
nodding  to  everybody  he  knew.  Re- 
cent events  reflected  no  shame  on  him  ; 
and  if  they  had  reflected  it,  Reginald 
Hastings  was  not  one  to  take  the 
shame  to  himself. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  cried  he 
freely  to  a  group,  through  whom  they 
had  to  push  their  way  along  the 
pavement.    "  Anybody  down  in  a  lit  ?" 

"  Old  Byles  is  a-shutting  up  of 
his  shop  for  good,"  came  the  answer. 
"  Mr.  George  Godolphin  have  had 
his  money,  so  he  says  it's  of  no  use 
for  him  to  try  to  keep  open  ;  he  may 
as  well  go  right  off  into  the  workus." 

Pleasant  hearing  for  Maria  !  This 
Byles  kept  a  general  shop,  and  they 
did  owe  him  something  considerable, 
for  the  servants  were  in  the  habit  of 
running  there  when  stores  ran  short 
at  home.  The  man's  savings,  also, 
had  been  in  the  bank.  He  was  ac- 
customed to  get  tipsy  every  night ; 
and,  when  in  that  state,  would  hold 
forth  at  his  door  upon  the  subject  of 
his  grievances  to  the  listeners  who 
collected  round  it.  It  was  long  since 
he  had  had  such  a  grievance  as  this. 

"  Bah  !"  cried  Reginald.  "  He'll  be 
all  right  in  the  morning." 

"  Come  along,  Reginald,"  whispered 
Maria,  in  fear  lest  the  crowd  should 
x-ecognize,  perhaps  insult  her.  And 
they  walked  on :  her  head  bent  lower ; 
Reginald's  turned  back  with  a  laugh. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  bank, 
Reginald  gave  a  flourish  on  the 
knocker  enough  to  knock  it  flat,  pulled 


the  bell  with  a  peal  that  alarmed  the 
servants,  and  then  made  off  with  a 
hasty  good-night,  leaving  Maria  stand- 
ing there  alone,  in  his  careless  fashion. 
Possibly  he  was  anticipating  some 
fun  with  old  Byles.  At  the  same 
moment  there  advanced  from  the  op- 
posite direction,  a  woman  carrying  a 
brown-paper  parcel. 

It  was  Margery.  Detained  at  the 
place  where  she  had  gone  to  meet  her 
sister  by  that  sister's  sudden  illness,  she 
had  been  unable  to  return  until  now. 
It  had  put  Margery  out  considerably, 
and  altogether  she  had  come  home  in 
any  thing  but  a  genial  humor. 

"  I  knowecl  there'd  be  nothing  lucky 
in  the  journey,"  she  grumblingly 
cried,  in  reply  to  Maria's  salutation 
of  welcome.  "  The  night  afore  I  start- 
ed I  was  stuck  in  the  midst  of  a  muddy 
pool  all  night  in  my  dream,  and 
couldn't  get  out  of  it." 

"  Is  your  sister  better  ?"  asked 
Maria.  • 

"She's  better;  and  gone  on  into 
Wales.  But  she's  the  poorest  crea- 
ture I  ever  saw.  Is  all  well  at  home, 
ma'am  ?" 

"All  well,"  replied  Maria,  the  tone 
of  her  voice  a  subdued  one,  as  she 
thought  how  different  it  was  in  one 
sense  from  "  well." 

"  And  how  has  Harriet  managed 
with  the  child  ?"  continued  Margery, 
in  a  tart  tone,  meant  for  the  uncon- 
scious Harriet. 

"Very  well  indeed,"  answered 
Maria.     "Quite  well." 

The  door  had  been  opened,  and 
they  were  then  crossing  the  hall. 
Maria  turned  into  the  dining-room, 
and  Margery  continued  her  way  up- 
stairs, grunting  as  she  did  so.  To 
believe  that  Harriet,  or  anybody  else, 
herself  excepted,  could  do  "  quite 
well"  by  Meta,  was  a  stretch  of 
credulity  utterly  inadmissible  to  Mar- 
gery's biased  mind.  In  the  nursery 
sat  Harriet,  a  damsel  in  a  smart  cap 
with  flying  pink  ribbons. 

"  What,  is  it  you  !"  was  her  saluta- 
tion to  Margery.  "  We  thought  you 
had  taken  up  your  abode  yonder  for 
good." 


T  HE      SHADOW      OF      AS  II  LYDYAT 


327 


'•  Did  you  ?"  said  Margery.  "What 
else  did  you  think  f" 

"  Andyour  sister,  poor  dear  !"  con- 
tinued Harriet,  passing  by  the  retort 
and  speaking  in  a  sympathizing  tone, 
for  she  generally  found  it  to  her  in- 
terest to  keep  friends  with  Margery. 
'•  Is  she  got  well  ?" 

"As  well  as  she  ever  will  get,  I 
suppose,"  was  Margery's  crusty  an- 
swer. 

She  sat  down,  untied  her  bonnet- 
strings  and  threw  it  off,  and  un- 
pinned her  shawl.  Harriet  snuffed 
the  candle  and  resumed  her  work, 
which  appeared  to  be  the  sewing  of 
tapes  on  a  pinafore  of  Meta's. 

"Has  she  tore  'em  off  again  ?"  asked 
Margery,  her  eyes  following  the  pro- 
gress of  the  needle. 

"  She's  always  tearing  them  off,"  re- 
sponded Harriet,  biting  the  end  of 
her  thread. 

"  And  how's  things  going  on  here  ?" 
demanded  Margery,  her  voice  assum- 
ing a  confidential  tone,  as  she  drew  her 
chair  nearer  to  Harriet's.  "  The  bank's 
not  opened  again,  I  find,  for  I  asked 
so  much  at  the  station." 

"  Things  couldn't  be  worse,"  said 
Harriet.  "  It's  all  a  smash  together. 
The  house  is  bankrupt." 

"  Lord  help  us  !"  ejaculated  Mar- 
gery. 

Harriet  let  her  work  fall  on  the 
table,  and  leaned  her  head  towards 
Margery's,  her  voice  dropping  to  a 
whisper.     • 

"  I  say  !  We  have  got  a  man  in 
here  !" 

"In  here!"  breathlessly  rejoined 
Margery. 

Harriet  nodded.  "  Since  last  Tues- 
day. There's  one  stopping  here,  and 
there's  another  at  Ashlydyat.  Mar- 
gery, I  declare  to  you  when  they 
were  going  through  the  house,  them 
creatures,  I  felt  that  sick  that  I  could 
have  heaved  my  inside  right  out.  If 
I  had  dared,  I'd  have  upset  a  bucket 
of  boiling  water  over  the  lot  as  they 
came  up  the  stairs." 

Margery  sat,  revolving  the  news, 
a  terribly  blank  look  upon  her  face. 
Harriet  resumed  : 


"  We  shall  all  have  to  leave,  every 
soul  of  us  :  and  soon,  too,  we  expect. 
I  don't  know  about  you,  you  know. 
I  am  so  sorry  for  my  mistress !" 

"  Well !"  burst  forth  Margery,  giv- 
ing vent  to  her  indignation,  "he  has 
brought  matters  to  a  fine  pass  i" 

"  Meaning  master  ?"  asked  Harriet. 

"  Meaning  nobody  else,"  was  the 
tart  rejoinder. 

"  He  just  has,"  said  Harriet.  "  Pri- 
or's Ash  is  saying  such  things  that  it 
raises  one's  hair  to  hear  it.  We  don't 
like  to  repeat  them  again,  only  just 
among  ourselves." 

"  What's  the  drift  of  'em  ?"  inquired 
Margery. 

"  There's  all  sorts  of  drifts, — about 
his  having  took  and  made  away  with 
the  money  in  the  tills ;  and  those 
bonds  of  Lord  Averil's,  that  i.here  was 
so  much  looking  after, — it  was  he 
took  them.  Who'd  have  believed  it, 
Marger}-,  of  Mr.  George  Godolphin, 
with  his  gav  laugh  and  his  handsome 
face  ?" 

"  Better  for  him  if  his  laugh  had 
been  a  bit  less  gay  and  his  face  less 
handsome,"  was  the  sharp  remark  of 
Margery.  "He  might  have  been 
steadier  then." 

"  Folks  talk  of  the  Verralls,  and 
that  set,  up  at  Lady  Godolphin's  Fol- 
ly," rejoined  Harriet,  her  voice  falling 
still  lower.  "  Prior's  Ash  says  he 
has  had  too  much  to  do  with  them, 
and " 

"  I  don't  want  that  scandal  repeated 
over  to  me,"  angriby  reprimanded 
Margery.  "  Perhaps  other  people 
know  as  much  about  it  as  Prior's  Ash  ; 
they  have  got  eyes,  I  suppose.  There's 
no  need  for  you  to  bring  it  up  to  one's 
face." 

"  But  they  talk  chiefly  about  Mr. 
Verrall,"  persisted  Harriet,  with  a 
stress  upon  the  name.  "  It's  said  that 
he  and  master  have  had  business-deal- 
ings together  of  some  sort,  and  that 
that's  where  the  money's  gone.  I  was 
not  going  to  bring  up  any  thing  else. 
The  man  down-stairs — and  upon  my 
word,  Margery,  he's  a  decent  man 
enough,  if  you  can  only  forget  who 
he  is — says  that  there  are  thousands 


228 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


and  thousands  gone  into  Verrall's 
pockets  which  ought  to  be  in  mas- 
ter's." 

"  They'd  ruin  a  saint,  and  I  have 
always  said  it,"  was  Margery's  angry 
remark.  "  See  her  tearing  about  with 
her  horses  and  her  carriages,  in  her 
feathers  and  her  brass  ;  and  master 
at  her  tail,  after  her  !  Many's  the 
time  I've  wondered  that  Mr.  Godol- 
phin  has  put  up  with  it.  7'd  have 
given  him  a  word  of  a  sort,  if  I  had 
been  his  brother." 

"  I  should  if  I  had  been  his  wife " 

Harriet  was  beginning,  but  Margery 
fiercely  arrested  her.  Her  own  tongue 
might  be  guilty  of  as  many  slips  as 
it  chose  in  the  forgetful  heat  of  argu- 
ment ;  but  it  was  high  treason  for 
Harriet's  to  lapse  into  one. 

"  You  hold  your  sauce,  will  you, 
girl !  How  dare  you  bring  your  mis- 
tress's name  up  in  any  such  thing  ? 
I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  for  my 
part.  When  she  complains  of  her 
husband,  it'll  be  time  enough  then  for 
you  to  take  up  the  chprus.  Could 
you  wish  to  see  a  better  husband, 
pray  ?" 

"  He's  quite  a  model-husband — to 
her  face,"  replied  saucy  Harriet.  "And 
the  old  saying's  a  true  one, — what  the 
eye  don't  see  the  heart  won't  rue. 
Where's  the  need  for  us  to  quarrel 
over  it,"  she  added,  picking  up  her 
work  again.  "You  have  got  your 
opinion  and  I  have  got  mine  ;  and  if 
they  were  laid  naked  side  by  side  it's 
likely  they'd  not  be  far  apart  from  each 
other.  Let  them  be  bad  or  good,  op- 
posite or  favorable,  it  can't  make  any 
change  in  the  past.  What's  done  is 
done,  and  the  house  is  broken  up." 

Marger}r  flung  her  shawl  off  her 
shoulders,  something  like  Charlotte 
Pain  had  flung  off  hers,  the  previous 
Monday  morning,  in  the  breakfast- 
room,  and  a  silence  ensued. 

"  Perhaps  the  house  may  go  on 
again  ?"  said  Margery,  presently,  in  a 
dreamy  tone. 

"  Why,  how  can  it  ?"  returned  Har- 
riet, looking  up  from  her  work  at  the 
pinafore,   which    she    had    resumed. 


"All  the  money's  gone.    A  bank  can*t 
go  on  without  money." 

"  What'  does  he  say  to  it  ?"  very 
sharply  asked  Margery. 

"  What  docs  who  say  to  it  ?" 

"  Master.  Does  he.  say  how  the 
money  comes  to  gone  ?  How  does  he 
like  facing  the  creditors  ?" 

"  He  is  not  here,"  said  Harriet. 
"  He  has  not  been  home  since  he  left 
last  Saturday.  It's  said  he  is  in  Lon- 
don." 

"And  Mr.  Godolphin  ?" 

"  Mr.  Godolphin's  here.  And  a  nice 
task  of  it  has  he  every  day,  with  the 
angry  creditors.  If  we  have  had  one 
of  the  bank-creditors  bothering  at  the 
hall -door  for  Mr.  George,  we  have  had 
fifty.  At  first,  they'd  not  believe  he 
was  away,  and  wouldn't  be  got  rid  of. 
Creditors  of  the  house,  too,  have  come, 
worrying  my  mistress  out  of  her  life." 

"  Why  need  they  worry  her  V 
wrathfully  asked  Margery. 

"  They  must  see  somebody  ;  and 
Mr.  George  is  not  here  to  be  seen." 

"  Then  he  ought  to  be,"  snapped 
Margery. 

"  So  he  ought.  There's  a  sight  of 
money  owing  in  the  town.  Cook  says 
she'd  not  have  believed  there  was  a 
quarter  of  the  amount,  only  just  for 
household  things,  till  it  came  to  be 
summed  up.  Some  of  them  down- 
stairs are  wondering  if  they  will  get 
their  wages.  And — I  say,  Margery, 
have  you  heard  about  Mr.  Hastings  V 

"  What  about  him  ?"  Ssked  Mar- 
gery. 

"  He  has  lost  every  shilling  he  had. 
It  was  in  the  bank,  and " 

"  He  couldn't  have  had  so  very 
much  to  lose,"  interposed  Margery, 
who  was  in  the  humor  to  contradict 
every  thing.  "  What  can  a  parson 
save  ? — not  much." 

"But  it  is  not  that — his  money. 
The  week  before  the  bank  went,  he 
had  lodged  between  nine  and  ten  thou- 
sand pounds  in  it  for  safety.  He  was 
left  trustee,  you  know,  to  Mr  Chis- 
holm's  children,  and  their  money  was 
paid  to  him,  it  turns  out,  and  he 
brought  it  to  the  bank.     It's  all  gone." 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T. 


329 


Margery  lifted  her  hands  in  dismay. 
"  I  have  heard  say  that  failures  is  like 
nothing  but  a  devouring  fire,  for  the 
money  they  swallow  up,"  she  re- 
marked.     "  It  seems  it's  true." 

"  My  mistress  has  looked  so  ill  ever 
since  !  And  she  can  eat  nothing. 
Pierce  says  it  would  melt  the  heart  of 
a  stone  to  see  her  make  believe  to  eat 
before  him  and  them,  waiting  at  din- 
ner, trying  to  get  a  morsel  down  her 
throat,  and  can't.  My  belief  is,  that 
phe's  thinking  of  her  father's  ruin 
night  and  day.  Report  is,  that  mas- 
ter took  the  money  from  the  rector, 
knowing  it  would  never  be  paid  back 
again." 

"  It  ought  to  have  been  paid  when 
the  bank  went,"  said  Margery. 

"  But  master  has  used  it,  they  say. 
That  man  down-stairs  seems  to  know 
every  thing.  We  wonder  where  he 
gathers  all  his  news  from." 

Margery  got  up  with  a  jerk.  "If 
I  stop  here  I  shall  be  hearing  worse 
and  worse,"  she  remarked.  "  This 
will  be  enough  to  kill  Miss  Janet. 
That  awful  Shadow  hasn't  been  on  the 
Dark  Plain  this  year  for  nothing.  We 
might  well  notice  that  it  never  was  so 
black  !" 

Perching  her  bonnet  on  her  head 
hind  part  before,  to  save  the  trouble 
of  carrying  it,  and  throwing  her  shawl 
over  her  arm,  Margery  lighted  a  can- 
dle and  opened  a  door  leading  from 
the  room  into  a  bedchamber.  Her 
own  bed  stood  opposite  to  her,  and  in 
a  corner  at  the  opposite  end  was  the 
little  bed  of  Miss  Meta.  She  laid  her 
hhawl  and  bonnet  on  the  drawers,  and 
advanced  on  tiptoe,  shading  the  light 
with  her  hand. 

Intending  to  take  a  fond  look  at  her 
darling.  But,  like  many  more  of  us 
who  advance  confidently  on  some  plea- 
sure, Margery  arrived  at  nothing  but 
disappointment.  The  place  where 
Meta  ought  to  have  been  was  empty. 
Nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  smooth, 
white  bedclothes,-  laid  ready  open  for 
the  young  lady's  reception.  Did  a 
fear  dart  over  Margery's  mind  that 
she  must  be  lost  ?     She  certainl}-  flew 


back,  as  if  some  such  idea  occurred 
to  her. 

"  Where's  the  child  ?"  she  burst  out. 

"  She  has  not  come  home  yet,"  re- 
plied Harriet,  with  composure.  "  I 
was  waiting  here  for  her." 

"  Come  home  from  where  ?  Where 
is  she  ?" 

"  At  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly.  But 
Mrs.  Pain  has  never  kept  her  so  late 
as  this  before." 

"She's  there!  With  Mrs.  Pain?" 
shrieked  Margery. 

"  She  has  been  there  every  day  this 
week.  Mrs.  Pain  has  either  come  or 
sent  for*  her.  Look  there,"  added 
Harriet,  pointing  to  a  collection  of 
toys  in  a  corner  of  the  nursery.  "  She 
has  brought  home  all  those  things. 
Mrs.  Pain  loads  her  with  them." 

Margery  answered  not  a  word.  She 
blew  out  the  candle,  leaving  it  under 
Harriet's  nose  for  her  benefit,  and 
went  down-stairs  to  the  dining-room. 
Maria,  her  things  never  taken  off,  was 
sitting  just  as  she  had  come  in,  appa- 
rently lost  in  thought.  She  rose  up 
when  Margery  entered,  and  began  un- 
tying her  bonnet. 

"  Harriet  says  that  the  child's  at 
Mrs.  Pain's, — that  she  has  been  let  go 
there  all  the  week,"  began  Margery, 
without  circumlocution. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Maria.  "  I  cannot 
think  why  she  has  not  come  home. 
Mrs.  Pain " 

"  And  you  could  let  her  go  there, 
ma'am  ?"  interrupted  Margery's  in- 
dignant voice,  paving  little  heed  or 
deference  to  what  her  mistress  might 
be  saying.  "  There!  If  anybody 
had  come  and  told  it  to  me  before  this 
night,  I'd  not  have  believed  it." 

"  But,  Margery,  it  has  done  her  no 
harm.  There's  a  pinafore  or  two  torn, 
I  believe,  and  that's  the  worst.  Mrs. 
Pain  has  been  exceedingly  kind.  She 
has  kept  her  dogs  shut  up  all  the 
week. " 

Margery's  face  was  working  omin- 
ously. It  bore  the  signs  of  a  brewing 
storm. 

"  Kind  !  She  !"  repeated  Margery, 
almost  beside  herself.     "  Why,  then, 


830 


T  HE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


if  it's  come  to  this  pass,  you  had  bet- 
ter have  your  eyes  opened,  ma'am,  if 
nothing  else  will  stop  the  child's  going 
there.  Your  child  at  Mrs.  Charlotte 
Pain's  !  Prior's  Ash  will  talk  more 
than  it  has  talked." 

"  What  has  Prior's  Ash  said  ?" 
asked  Maria,  an  uncomfortable  feeling 
stealing  over  her. 

"  It  has  wondered  whether  Mrs. 
George  Godolphin  has  been  wholly 
blind  or  only  partially  so ;  that's  what 
it  has  done,  ma'am,"  returned  Mar- 
gery, quite  forgetting  herself  in  her 
irritation.  "And  the  woman  coming 
here  continually  with  her  bold  face ! 
I'd  rather  see  Meta " 

Margery's  eloquence  was  brought 
to  a  summary  end.  A  noise  in  the 
hall  was  followed  by  the  boisterous 
entrance  of  the  ladies  in  question, 
Meta  and  Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain.  Char- 
lotte— really  she  was  wild  at  times — 
had  brought  Meta  home  on  horse- 
back. Late  as  it  was,  she  had  mounted 
her  horse  to  give  the  child  pleasure, 
had  mounted  the  child  on  the  saddle 
before  her,  and  so  they  had  rode  down, 
attended  by  a  groom.  Charlotte  wore 
her  habit  and  held  her  whip  in  her 
hand.  She  came  in  pretending  to  beat 
an  imaginary  horse,  for  the  delectation 
of  Meta.  Meta  was  furnished  with  a 
boy's  whip,  a  whistle  at  one  end  and 
a  sweeping  cord  and  lash  at  the  other. 
She  was  beating  an  imaginary  horse, 
too,  varying  the  play  with  an  occa- 
sional whistle.  What  with  the  noise, 
the  laughing,  the  lashes,  and  the  whis- 
tle, it  was  as  if  Bedlam  had  broken 
loose.  To  crown  the  whole,  Meta's 
brown-holland  dress  had  a  woful  rent 
in  it,  and  the  brim  of  her  straw  hat 
was  nearly  torn  from  the  crown.  Mar- 
gery, in  her  scandalized  feelings,  rather 
wished  the  floor  would  come  asunder 
and  let  everybody  into  the  opening — 
as  the  trap-doors  swallow  up  the 
diablcs  and  other  bad  characters  at 
the  play.  Margery  began  to  think 
they  were  all  bad  together  :  herself, 
her  mistress,  Mrs.  Pain,  and  Meta. 

Meta  caught  sight  of  Margery  and 
fiew  to  her ;  but  not  before  Margery 
had  made  a  sort  of  grab  at  the  child. 


Clasping  her  in  her  arms  she  held  her 
there,  as  if  she  would  protect  her  from 
some  infection.  To  be  clasped  in 
arms,  however,  and  thus  deprived  of 
the  delights  of  whip-smacking  and 
whistling,  did  not  accord  with  the 
ideas  of  Miss  Meta,  and  she  struggled 
to  get  free. 

**  You'd  best  stop  here  and  hide 
yourself,  poor  child  !"  cried  Margery, 
in  a  voice  uncommonly  pointed. 

"  It's  not  much,"  said  Charlotte, 
supposing  the  remark  applied  to  the 
damages.  "  The  brim  is  only  un- 
sewn,  and  the  blouse  is  an  old  one. 
She  did  it  with  the  swing." 

"Who's  talking  of  that?"  fiercely 
responded  Margery  to  Mrs.  Pain.  "  If 
folks  had  to  hide  their  faces  for  nothing 
worse  than  clothes,  it  wouldn't  be  of 
much  account." 

Charlotte  did  not  like  the  tone. 
"  Perhaps  you  will  wait  until  your 
opinion's  asked  for,"  said  she,  turning 
haughtily  on  Margery.  There  had 
been  incipient  warfare  between  those 
two  for  years ;  and  they  both  were 
innately  conscious  of  it. 

A  shrill  whistle  from  Meta  inter- 
rupted the  contest.  She  had  escaped, 
and  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  her  legs  astride,  her  damaged 
hat  set  rakishly  on  the  side  of  her 
head,  her  attitude  altogether  not  un- 
like that  of  a  man  standing  to  see  a 
horse  through  his  paces.  It  was  pre- 
cisely what  the  young  lady  was  imi- 
tating ;  she  had  been  taken  by  Char- 
lotte to  the  stable-yard  that  day,  to 
witness  the  performance. 

Clack,  clack  !  "  Heave  your  feet 
up,  you  lazy  brute  !"  Clack,  clack, 
clack !  "  Mamma,  I  am  making  a 
horse  canter." 

Charlotte  looked  on  with  admiring 
ecstasy,  and  clapped  her  hands  to 
show  it.  Maria  seemed  somewhat  be- 
wildered, and  Margery  stood  with  di- 
lating eyes  and  open  mouth.  There 
was  little  doubt  that  Miss  Meta,  under 
the  able  tuition  of  Mrs.  Pain,  might 
become  an  exceedingly  fast  young 
lady  in  time. 

"  You  have  been  teaching  her  that  f" 
burst  forth  Margery  to  Mrs.  Pain  in 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T 


331 


her  uncontrollable  anger.  "  What  else 
might  you  have  been  teaching  her  ? 
It's  fit,  it  is,  for  you  to  be  let  have 
the  companionship  of  Miss  Maria  Go- 
dolphin  !" 

Charlotte  laughed  in  her  face  defi- 
antly— contemptuously — with  a  glee- 
ful, merry  accent.  Margery,  perhaps 
distrustful  of  what  she  might  be  fur- 
ther tempted  to  say,  herself,  put  an 
end  to  the  scene,  by  catching  up  Meta 
and  forcibly  carrying  her  off,  in  spite 
of  rebellious  kicks  and  screams.  In 
her  temper,  she  flung  the  whip  to  the 
other  end  of  the  hall  as  she  passed 
through  it.  "  They'd  make  you  into 
a  boy,  and  worse,  if  they  had  their 
way  !  I  wish  Miss  Janet  had  been 
here  to-night  1" 

"  What  an  idiotic  old  maid  she  is, 
that  Margery  1"  exclaimed  Charlotte, 
laughing  still.  "When  did  she  get 
home  t" 

"  To-night,  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
ago,"  replied  Maria.  "Will  you  not 
sit  down,  Mrs.  Pain  ?" 

"I  can't;  my  horse  is  waiting," 
replied  Charlotte.  "I  suppose  there's 
nothing  fresh  to-day  ?" 

"  Not  that  I  have  heard  of.  But  I 
think  they  perhaps  keep  news  from 
me." 

"  Well,  don't  get  down-hearted. 
Worse  affairs  than  these  have  been 
battled  out,  and  nobody  been  much 
the  worse.  Good-night.  I  shall  come 
or  send  for  Meta  to-morrow." 

"  Not  to-morrow,"  dissented  Maria, 
feeling  that  the  struggle  with  Margery 
would  be  too  formidable.  "  I  thank 
you  very  much  for  your  kindness, 
Mrs.  Pain,"  she  heartily  added  :  "but 
now  that  Margery  has  returned  she 
will  not  like  to  part  with  Meta." 

"As  you  will,"  said  Charlotte,  with 
a  laugh.  "  Margery  would  not  let 
her  come,  you  think.  Good-night. 
Dormez  bien." 

Before  the  sound  of  the  closing  of 
the  hall-door  had  ceased  its  echoes 
through  the  house,  Margery  was  in 
the  dining-room  again,  her  face  white 
with  anger.  Her  mistress,  a  thing 
she  very  rarely  did,  ventured  on  a  re- 
proof. 


"You  forgot  yourself,  Margery, 
when  you  spoke  just  now  to  Mrs. 
Pain.  I  felt  inclined  to  apologize  to 
her  for  you." 

This  was  the  climax.  "  Forgot 
myself  !"  echoed  Margery,  her  white 
face  growing  whiter.  "  No,  ma'am, 
it's  because  I  did  not  forget  myself 
that  she's  gone  out  of  the  house  with- 
out her  ears  tingling.  I  should  have 
made  'em  tingle  if  I  had  spoke  out. 
Not  that  some  folk's  ears  can  tingle," 
added  Margery,  amending  her  prop- 
osition. "  Hers  is  of  the  number,  so 
I  should  have  spent  my  words  for 
nothing.  If  Mr.  George  had  spent 
his  words  upon  somebody  else,  it 
might  be  the  better  for  us  all  now." 

"Margery  !" 

"  I  can't  help  it,  ma'am,  I  must  have 
my  say.  Heaven  knows  I'd  not  have 
opened  my  mouth  to  you ;  I'd  have 
kept  it  closed  forever,  though  I  burst 
over  it, — and  it's  not  five  minutes  ago 
that  I  pretty  well  snapped  Harriet's 
nose  off  for  daring  to  give  out  hints 
and  to  bring  up  your  name, — but  it's 
time  you  did  know  a  little  of  what 
has  been  going  on,  to  the  scandal  of 
Prior's  Ash.  Meta  up  at  Lady  Go- 
dolphin's  Folly  with  that  woman  !" 

"  Margery  !"  again  interrupted  her 
mistress.  But  Margery's  words  were 
as  a  torrent  that  bears  down  all  be- 
fore it. 

"It  has  been  the  talk  of  the  town, 
it  has  been  the  talk  of  the  servants 
here,  it  has  been  the  talk  among  the 
servants  of  Ashlydyat.  If  I  thought 
you'd  let  the  child  go  out  with  her  in 
public  again,  I'd  pray  that  I  might 
first  follow  her  in  her  coffin." 

Maria's  face  had  turned  as  white  as 
Margery's.  She  sat  something  like  a 
statue,  gazing  at  the  woman  with 
eyes  in  which  there  shone  a  strange 
kind  of  fear. 

"  I — don't — know — what — it — is — 
you — mean,"  she  gasped,  the  words 
coming  out  in  gasps. 

"  It  means,  ma'am,  that  you  have 
lived  with  a  curtain  before  your  eyes. 
You  have  thought  my  master  a  saint 
and  a  paragon,  and  he  was  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other.     And  now  I  hope 


332 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


you'll  pardon  me  for  saying  to  your 
lace  what  others  have  been  long  say- 
ing behind  your  back." 

Maria  made  no  reply.  She  passed 
her  handkerchief  over  her  brow, 
where  the  drops  had  gathered. 

"  Master  has  been  upon  the  wrong 
tack  this  long  while,"  went  on  Mar- 
gery, her  manner  growing  somewhat 
more  composed,  her  tone  more  in  ac- 
cordance with  reason.  "  There  was 
her,  and  there  was  Verrall,  and  there 
was — but  it's  no  good  going  over  it," 
she  broke  off.  "  If  we  had  only  had  our 
wits  about  us,  we  might  have  told 
what  it  would  end  in." 

She  turned  sharply  off  as  she  con- 
cluded, and  quitted  the  room  abruptly 
as  she  had  entered  it, — leaving  Maria 
motionless,  her  breath  coming  in 
gasps,  and  the  dew-drops  cold  on  her 
brow. 

The  substance  of  what  Margery 
had  spoken  out  so  broadly  had  some- 
times passed  through  her  mind  as  a 
dim  shadow.  But  never  to  rest  there. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

ANOTHER   NAIL  IN   THE   COFFIN   OF 
THOMAS   GODOLPHIN. 

There  went  on  the  progress  of  a 
few  days,  and  another  week  was  in. 
Every  hour  brought  to  light  more — 
what  are  we  to  call  it — imprudence  ? 
— of  Mr.  George  Godolphin's.  His 
friends  termed  it  imprudence  :  his 
enemies  villany.  Thomas  called  it 
nothing :  he  never  cast  reproach  to 
George  by  a  single  word  ;  he  would 
have  taken  the  whole  odium  upon 
himself,  had  it  been  possible  to  take 
it.  George's  conduct  was  breaking 
his  heart,  was  driving  him  to  his 
grave  somewhat  before  his  time  ;  but 
Thomas  never  said  in  the  hearing  of 
others, — he  has  been  a  bad  brother  to 
me. 

George  Godolphin  wasnotycthome. 
It  could  not  be  said  that  he  was  in 
concealment,  as  he  was  sometimes  met 


in  London  by  people  visiting  it.  Per- 
haps he  carried  his  habitual  careless- 
ness so  far  as  the  perilling  of  his  own 
safety  ;  and  his  absence  from  Prior's 
Ash  may  have  been  the  result  only 
of  his  distaste  to  meet  that  ill-used 
community.  Had  he  been  the  sole 
partner,  he  must  have  been  there,  to 
answer  to  his  bankruptcy  ;  as  it  was, 
Thomas,  hitherto,  had  answered  all  in 
his  own  person. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  Thomas 
could  not  answer  it.  Ill  or  well,  he 
rose  now  to  the  early  breakfast -table  ; 
he  had  to  hasten  to  the  bank  betimes, 
for  there  was  much  work  there  with 
the  accounts  ;  and  one  morning  when 
they  were  at  breakfast,  Bexley,  his 
own  servant,  entered  with  one  or  two 
post  letters. 

But,  before  the  old  man  could  reach 
his  master,  whose  back  was  to  the 
door,  Janet  made  him  a  sign,  and 
Bexley  laid  the  letters  silently  down 
on  a  remote  table.  Thomas  Godol- 
phin's letters  had  not  latterly  been  of 
a  soothing  or  composing  nature, 
whether  addressed  to  the  bank  or  to 
Ashlydyat ;  and  Janet  deemed  it  just 
as  well  that  he  should  at  least  sit  to 
his  breakfast  in  peace. 

The  circumstance  of  the  letters 
being  there  passed  from  Janet's  mind 
Thomas  was  silent,  but  she,  Bessy, 
and  Cecil  were  discussing  certain  news 
which  they  had  received  the  previous 
day  from  Lady  Godolphin, — news 
which  had  surprised  them.  My  lady 
was  showing  herself  to  be  a  true  friend. 
She  had  announced  to  them  that  it 
was  her  intention  to  resume  her  resi- 
dence at  the  Folly,  that  they  "might 
not  be  separated  from  Prior's  Ash, 
the  place  of  their  birth  and  home." 
Of  course  it  was  an  intimation,  really 
delicately  put,  that  their  future  home 
must  be  with  her.  "  Never  for  me," 
Janet  remarked  :  her  future  residence 
would  not  be  at  Prior's  Ash  ;  as  far 
l'emovcd  from  it  as  might  be.  Bessy 
thought  she  should  rather  like  it :  it 
would  grieve  her  to  quit  Prior's  Ash. 
Cecil  said  nothing. 

Busy  talking,  they  did  not  particu- 
larly notice  that  Thomas   had  risen 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


333 


from  his  chair,  and  was  seated  at  the 
distant  table,  opening  his  letters; 
until  a  faint  sound,  something  like  a 
moan,  startled  them.  He  was  leaning 
hack  in  his  chair,  seemingly  uncon- 
scious ;  his  hands  had  fallen,  his  face 
was  the  hue  of  the  grave.  Surely 
those  dews  upon  it  were  not  the  dews 
of  death  ? 

Cecil  screamed  ;  Bessy  flung  open 
the  door  and  called  out  for  help ; 
Jauet  only  turned  to  them,  her  hands 
lifted,  to  enjoin  silence,  a  warning  word 
upon  her  lips.  Bexley  came  running 
in,  and  looked  at  his  master. 

"  Hell  be  better  presently,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"  Yes,  he  will  be  better  presently," 
assented  Janet.  "  But  I  should  like 
Snow  to  be  here." 

Bexley  was  the  only  man-servant 
left  at  Ashlydyat.  Short  work  is 
generally  made  of  the  dispersion  of  a 
household  when  the  means  come  to  a 
summary  end,  as  they  had  with  the 
Godolphins  :  and  there  had  been  no 
difficulty  in  finding  places  for  the 
valuable  servants  of  Ashlydyat.  Bex- 
ley had  stoutly  refused  to  go.  He 
didn't  want  wages,  he  said,  but  he 
was  not  going  to  leave  his  master,  so 

long   as Bexley  did   not   say  so 

long  as  what,  but  they  had  understood 
him.   So  long  as  his  master  was  in  life. 

Thomas  began  to  revive.  He  slowly 
opened  his  eyes,  and  raised  his  hand 
to  wipe  the  moisture  from  his  white 
face.  On  the  table  before  him  lay 
i  ne  of  the  letters  open.  Janet  recog- 
nized the  handwriting  to  be  that  of 
George. 

She  spurned  the  letter  from  her. 
With  a  gesture  of  grievous  vexation, 
her  hand  pushed  it  across  the  table. 
•'  It  is  that  which  has  affected  you  !" 
she  cried  out,  with  a  wail. 

"  Not  so,"  breathed  Thomas.  "  It 
was  the  pain  here." 

He  touched  himself  below  the  chest; 
considerably  lower  ;  in  the  same  place 
where  the  pain  had  come  before. 
Which  pain  had  taken  him  ?  the  men- 
tal agony  arising  from  George's  con- 
duct, or  the  physical  agony  of  his 
disease  ?    Probably  somewhat  of  both. 


He  stretched  out  his  hand  towards 
the  letter,  making  a  motion  that  it 
should  be  folded.  Bexley,  who  could 
not  have  read  a  word  without  his 
glasses,  had  it  been  to  save  his  life, 
took  up  the  letter,  folded  it,  and  placed 
it  in  its  envelope.  Thomas's  mind 
then  seemed  at  rest,  and  he  closed  his 
eyes  again. 

"  I'll  step  for  Mr.  Snow  now,  ma'am," 
whispered  Bexley  to  Janet.  "  I  shall 
catch  him  before  he  goes  out  on  his 
round." 

Bexley  got  his  hat  and  went  down 
to  Prior's  Ash  the  nearest  way,  put- 
ting out  his  quickest  step.  When  he 
reached  the  surgery,  Mr.  Snow's 
assistant  was  the  centre  of  a  whole  lot 
of  patients.  It  was  the  morning  for 
the  poor.     Mr.  Snow  was  out. 

"Will  he  be  long?"  asked  Bex- 
ley. 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  the  assistant's 
reply.  "  He  was  called  out  at  six 
this  morning." 

"  He  is  wanted  at  Ashlydyat  par- 
ticularly," said  Bexley.  "  Mr.  Godol- 
phin's  worse." 

"  Is  he  !"  returned  the  assistant,  his 
quick  tone  indicating  concern.  And 
the  poor  patients  looked  round,  con- 
cerned also.  Thomas  Godolphin  had 
always  been  their  friend.  And  they 
were  not  creditors  of  the  bank,  or  the 
fresh  grievance  might  have  blotted 
out  the  good  remembrance  of  long 
years. 

"  I  can  tell  you  where  he  is ;  and 
that's  at  Major  Meersom's,"  continued 
the  assistant.  "  You  might  call  and 
speak  to  him  if  you  like  :  it  is  on  your 
road  home." 

Bexley  hastened  away  to  Major 
Meersom's,  and  succeeded  in  seeing 
the  surgeon.  He  informed  him  that 
his  master  was  worse, — was  very  ill. 

"  One  of  the  old  attacks  of  pain,  I 
suppose  ?"  said  Mr.  Snow. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Bexley.  "  He 
was  taken  while  he  was  reading  his 
letters.  Miss  Janet  thought  it  might 
be  some  ill  news  or  other  that  put  him 
out." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Snow,  and  there 
was    a    world    of    emphasis   on   the 


334 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


monosyllable.  "  Well,  I  shan't  be 
detained  above  half  an  hour  longer 
here,  Bexley,  and  I'll  come  straight 
up." 

He  reached  Ashlydyat  within  the 
half  hour  after  Bexley,  rather  than 
over  it :  doctors'  legs  get  over  the 
ground  quick.  Janet  saw  his  ap- 
proach, and  came  into  the  hall  to 
meet  him.  She  was  looking  very  sad 
and  pale. 

"Another  attack,  I  hear,"  began 
Mr.  Snow,  in  his  unceremonious 
mode  of  salutation.  "  Bothered  into 
it,  no  doubt.  Bexley  says  it  came  on 
when  he  was  reading  letters." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Janet  in  aquiesc- 
ence,  her  tone  a  resentful  one.  "  The 
handwriting  of  the  letter  was  George's, 
I  saw :  and  nothing  pleasant  could 
come  from  him." 

Mr.  Snow  gave  a  grunt  as  he  turn- 
ed towards  the  stairs.  "  Not  there," 
interposed  Janet.  "  He  is  in  the 
breakfast-room." 

With  the  wan  wbito  look  upon  his 
face,  with  the  moisture  of  pain  still 
upon  his  brow,  l?y  Thomas  Godol- 
phin. He  wr-s  <^n  the  sofa  now  ;  but 
he  partially  rose  from  it  and  assumed 
a  sitting  posture  when  the  surgeon 
entered. 

A  few  professional  questions  and 
answers,  and  then  Mr.  Snow  began  to 
grumble.  "Did  I  not  warn  you  that 
you  must  have  perfect  tranquillity  ?" 
cried  he.  "  Rest  of  body  and  of 
mind  ?" 

"  You  did.  But  how  am  I  to  get 
it  ?  Even  now,  I  ought  to  be  at  the 
bank,  facing  the  trouble  there." 

"  Where's  George  ?"  sharply  asked 
Mr.  Snow. 

"  In  London,"  replied  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin.  But  he  said  it  in  no  com- 
plaining accent :  neither  did  his  tone 
invite  further  comment. 

Mr.  Snow  was  one  who  did  not 
wait  for  an  invitation  in  such  a  cause, 
ere  he  spoke.  "It  is  just  one  of  two 
things,  Mr.  Godolphin.  Either  George 
must  come  back  and  face  this  worry, 
or  else  you'll  die." 

"  I  shall  die,  however  it  may  be, 


Snow,"  was  the  reply  of  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin. 

"  So  will  most  of  us,  I  expect,"  re- 
turned the  doctor.  "  But  there's  no 
necessity  for  our  being  helped  on  to  it 
by  others,  ages  before  death  would 
come  of  itself.  What's  your  brother 
at,  in  London  ?" 

"  I  realhr  do  not  know." 

"Amusing  himself,  of  course.  What's 
his  address  ?" 

"That  I  do  not  know." 

"  Who  does  know  it  ?     His  wife  ?" 

"  I  think  it  likely  she  does  now.  I 
have  not  made  the  inquiry  of  her." 

"Well,  he  must  be  got  here." 

Thomas  shook  his  head.  The  ac- 
tion, as  implying  a  negative,  aroused 
the  wrath  of  Mr.  Snow.  "Do  you 
want  to  die  ?"  he  asked.  "  One  would 
think  it,  by  your  keeping  your  brother 
away." 

"  There  is  no  person  would  be  more 
glad  to  see  my  brother  here  than  I," 
returned  Thomas  Godolphin.  "If — 
if  it  were  expedient  that  he  should 
come." 

"Need  there  be  affected  conceal- 
ment between  us,  Mr.  Godolphin  ?" 
resumed  the  surgeon,  after  a  pause. 
"You  must  be  aware  that  I  have 
heard  the  rumor  afloat.  A  doctor 
hears  every  thing,  you  know.  You 
are  uncertain  whether  it  would  be 
safe  for  George  to  come  back  to 
Prior's  Ash." 

"  It  is  something  of  that,  Snow." 

"But  now,  what  is  there  against 
him — it  is  of  no  use  to  mince  the  mat- 
ter— besides  those  bonds  of  Lord 
Averil's  ?" 

"There's  nothing  else  against  him. 

At  least,  in — in "     He  did  not  go 

on.  He  could  not  bring  his  lips  to 
say  of  his  brother — "  in  a  criminal 
point  of  view." 

"  Nothing  else  of  which  unpleasant 
legal  cognizance  can  be  taken,"  freely 
interposed  Mr  Snow.  "Well,  now, 
it  is  my  opinion  that  there's  not  a 
shadow  of  fear  to  be  entertained  from 
Lord  Averil.  He  is  your  old  and  firm 
friend,  Mr.  Godolphin." 

"  He   has   been   mine, — yes.     Not 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  IT  L  Y  D  Y  A  T 


335 


much  of  George's.  Most  men  in  such 
a  case  of — of  loss,  would  resent  it, 
without  reference  to  former  friendship. 
I  am  not  at  any  certainty,  you  see: 
and  therefore  I  cannot  take  the  re- 
sponsibility of  saying  to  my  brother 
'  It  is  safe  for  you  to  return.'  Lord 
Averil  has  never  been  near  me  since. 
I  argue  ill  from  it." 

"  He  has  not  been  with  you  for  the 
best  of  all  possible  reasons, — that  he 
has  been  away  from  Prior's  Ash,"  ex- 
plained Mr.  Snow. 

"  He  has  been  away  ?  I  did  not 
know  it." 

"  He  has,  then.  He  was  called 
away  unexpectedly  by  some  relative's 
illness,  a  day  or  two  after  your  house 
was  declared  bankrupt.  He  may 
have  refrained  from  calling  on  you  just 
at  the  time  of  that  happening,from  mo- 
tives of  delicacy." 

"  True,"  replied  Thomas  Godolphin. 
But  his  tone  was  not  a  hopeful  one. 
"  When  does  he  return  ?" 

"  He  has  returned.  He  came  back 
last  night."  ' 

There  was  a  pause.  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin  broke  it.  "  I  wish  you  could 
give  me  something  to  avert  or  miti- 
gate these  sharp  attacks  of  pain, 
Snow,"  he  said.  "  It  is  agony,  in 
fact;  not  pain." 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  Mr.  Snow. 
"Where's  the  use  of  my  attempting  to 
give  you  any  thing?  You  don't  take 
my  prescription." 

Thomas  lifted  his  eyes  in  some  sur- 
prise. "I  have  taken  all  that  you  de- 
sired me." 

"  No  you  have  not.  I  prescribe 
tranquillity  of  mind  and  body.  You 
take  neither." 

Thomas  Godolphin  leaned  a  little 
nearer  to  the  doctor,  and  paused  be- 
fore he  answered.  "  Tranquillity  of 
mind,  for  me,  has  passed.  I  can 
never  know  it  again.  Were  my  life 
to  be  prolonged,  the  great  healer  of 
all  things,  Time,  might  bring  it  to  me 
in  a  degree  :  but,  for  that,  I  shall  not 
live.  Snow,  you  must  know  this  to 
be  the  case,  under  the  calamity  which 
has  fallen  upon  my  head." 

"  It  ought  to  have  fallen  upon  your 


brother's  head,  not  upon  yours,"  was 
the  rejoinder  of  the  surgeon,  spoken 
crossly,  in  his  inability  to  contradict 
Mr.  Godolphin's  words.  "  At  any 
rate,  you  cannot  go  on  any  longer, 
facing  this  business  in  person." 

"  I  must  indeed.  There  is  no  help 
for  it," 

"And  suppose  it  kills  you?"  was 
the  retort. 

"If  I  could  help  going,  I  would," 
said  Thomas.  "  But  there  is  no  help. 
One  of  us  must  be  there  ;  and  George 
cannot.  You  are  not  ignorant  of  the 
laws  of  bankruptcy." 

"It  is  another  nail  in  your  coffin," 
grunted  Mr.  Snow,  as  he  took  his 
leave. 

He  went  direct  to  the  bank.  He 
asked  to  see  Mrs.  George  Godolphin. 
Maria,  in  her  pretty  morning-dress  of 
lavender-spotted  muslin,  was  seated 
with  Meta  on  her  knees.  She  had 
been  reading  the-  child  a  Bible-story, 
and  was  now  talking  to  her  in  a  low 
voice, — her  own  face,  so  gentle,  so 
pure,  and  so  sad,  bent  towards  the 
little  one  upturned  to  it. 

"  Well,  young  lady,  and  how  are  all 
the  dolls  ?"  was  the  surgeon's  greet- 
ing. "  Will  you  send  her  away  to 
play  with  them,  Mrs.  George  ?" 

Meta  ran  on  the  errand.  She  in- 
tended to  come  bustling  down  with 
her  arms  full.  Mr.  Snow  took  his 
seat  opposite  Maria. 

"  Why  does  your  husband  not  come 
back  ?"  he  abruptly  asked. 

The  question  seemed  to  turn  Ma- 
ria's heart  to  sickness.  She  opened 
her  lips  to  answer,  but  stopped  in 
hesitation.     Mr.  Snow  resumed  : 

"  His  staying  away  is  killing  Thomas 
Godolphin.  I  prescribe  tranquillity 
for  him  ;  total  rest :  instead  of  which 
he  is  obliged  to  come  here  day  after 
day,  and  be  in  a  continuous  scene  of 
turmoil.  Your  husband  must  return, 
Mrs.  George  Godolphin." 

"  Y — es,"  she  faintly  answered,  lack- 
ing the  courage  to  say  that  considera- 
tions for  his  personal  security  might 
forbid  it. 

"  Murder  will  not  mend  these  un- 
happy matters,  Mrs.   George    Godol- 


1336 


THE       SHADOW       OF       ASHLYDYAT, 


phin  ;  nor  would  it  be  a  desirable 
ending  to  them.  And  it  will  be  nothing 
less  than  murder,  if  he  does  not  come 
back,  for  Mr.  Godolphin  will  surely 
die." 

All  Maria's  pulses  seemed  to  beat 
the  quicker.  "Is  Mr.  Godolphin 
worse  ?"  she  asked. 

"  He  is  considerably  worse.  I  have 
been  called  in  to  him  this  morning. 
My  last  orders  to  him  were,  not  to  at- 
tempt to  come  to  the  bank.  His  an- 
swer was,  that  he  must  come;  that 
there  was  no  help  for  it.  I  believe 
there  is  no  help  for  it,  George  being 
away.  You  must  get  him  home,  Mrs. 
George." 

She  looked  sadly  blank,  sadly  per- 
plexed. Mr.  Snow  read  it  correctly. 
"  My  dear,  I  think  there  would  be  no 
hazard,  Lord  Averil  being  a  personal 
friend  of  Mr.  Godolphin's.  I  think 
there's  none  for  another  reason — that 
if  the  viscount's  intention  had  been  to 
stir  unpleasantly  in  the  affair,  he  would 
have  done  it  ere  this." 

"  Yes — I  have  thought  of  that,"  she 
answered. 

"And  now  I  must  go  again,"  he 
said,  rising.  "  I  wish  to-day  was 
twenty-four  hours  long  for  the  work 
J  have  to  do  in  it ;  but  I  spaced  a  few 
minutes  to  call  in  and  tell  you  this. 
Get  your  husband  here,  for  the  sake 
of  his  good  brother." 

The  tears  were  in  Maria's  eyes. 
She  could  scarcely  think  of  Thomas 
Godolphin  and  his  unmerited  troubles 
without  their  rising.  Mr.  Snow  saw 
the  wet  eyelashes,  and  laid  his  hand 
on  the  smoothly-parted  hair. 

"  You  have  had  your  share  of  sor- 
row just  now,  child,"  he  said  ;  "more 
than  you  ought  to  have.  It  is  making 
you  look  like  a  ghost.  Why  does  he 
leave  you  to  battle  it  out  alone  ?" 
added  Mr.  Snow,  his  anger  overmas- 
tering him,  as  he  gazed  at  her  pale 
face,  her  rising  sobs.  "  Prior's  Ash 
is  crying  shame  upon  him.  Are  you 
and  his  brother  of  less  account  than 
he,  in  his  own  eyes,  that  he  should 
abandon  you  to  it  ?" 

She  strove  to  excuse  her  husband — 
he  was  her  husband,  in  spite  of  that 


cruel  calumny  divulged  by  Margery — 
but  Mr.  Snow  would  not  listen.  He 
was  in  a  hurry  he  said,  and  went  bus- 
tling out  of  the  door,  nearly  upsetting 
Meta,  with  her  dolls,  who  was  bustling 
in. 

Maria  sent  the  child  to  the  nursery 
again  after  Mr.  Snow's  departure,  and 
stood,  her  head  pressed  against  the 
frame  of  the  open  window,  looking  un- 
consciously on  to  the  terrace,  and  re- 
volving the  words  recently  spoken. 
"  It  is  killing  Thomas  Godolphin.  It 
will  be  nothing  less  than  murder,  if 
George  does  not  come  back." 

Every  fibre  of  her  frame  was  thrill- 
ing to  it  in  answer;  every  generous 
impulse  of  her  heart  was  stirred  to  its 
depths.  He  ought  to  be  back.  She 
had  long  thought  so.  For  her  sake — 
but  she  was  nothing;  for  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin's  ;  for  her  husband's  own  repu- 
tation. Down  deep  in  her  heart  she 
thrust  that  dreadful  revelation  of  his 
falsity,  and  strove  to  bury  it,  as  an 
English  wife  and  gentlewoman  has  no 
resource  but  to  do.  Ay  !  to  bury  it ; 
and  to  keep  it  buried  !  though  the  con- 
cealment eat  away  her  life — as  that 
scarlet  letter  A,  you  have  read  of,  eat 
into  the  bosom  of  another  woman  re- 
nowned in  story.  It  seemed  to  Maria 
that  the  time  was  come  when  she  must 
inquire  a  little  into  the  actual  state  of 
affairs,  instead  of  hiding  her  head  and 
spending  her  days  in  the  indulgence 
of  her  fear  and  grief.  If  the  whole 
world  spoke  against  him, — if  the 
whole  world  had  cause  to  speak, — she 
was  his  wife  still,  and  his  interests  anil 
welfare  were  hers.  Were  it  possible 
that  any  effort  she  could  make  would 
bring  him  back,  she  must  make  it. 

The  words  of  Mr.  Snow  still  rang 
in  her  ears.  How  was  she  to  set 
about  it  ?  A  few  minutes  given  to 
reflection,  her  aching  brow  pressed  on 
the  cold  window-frame,  and  she  turned 
and  rang  the  bell.  When  the  servant 
appeared,  she  sent  him  into  the  bank 
with  a  request  that  Mr.  Hurde  would 
come  and  speak  with  her  for  five 
minutes. 

Mr.  Hurde  was  not  long  in  obe}Miig 
the  summons.     He  appeared  with  a 


THE      SHADOW      OP      A  S  H L  Y  D  Y  A  T 


337 


pen  behind  his  ear,  and  his  spectacles 
pushed  up  on  his  brow. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  task,  and  Ma- 
ria had  to  swallow  a  good  many  lumps 
in  her  throat  before  she  could  make 
known  precisely  what  she  wanted. 
"  Would  Mr.  llurde  tell  her  the  exact 
state  of  things  ?  What  there  was,  or 
was  not,  against  her  husband." 

Mr.  Hurde  gave  no  very  satisfac- 
tory reply.  He  took  off  his  glasses 
and  wiped  them.  Maria  had  invited 
him  to  a  chair,  and  sat  near  him,  her 
elbow  leaning  on  the  table,  and  her 
face  slightly  bent.  Mr.  Hurde  did  not 
know  what  Mrs.  George  Godolphin 
had  or  had  not  heard,  or  how  far  it 
would  be  expedient  for  him  to  speak. 
She  guessed  at  his  dilemma. 

"  Tell  me  all,  Mr.  Hurde,"  she  said, 
lifting  her  face  to  his  with  imploring 
eagerness.  "It  is  well  that  you 
should,  for  nothing  can  be  more  cruel 
than  the  uncertainty  and  suspense  I 
am  in.  I  know  about  Lord  Averil's 
bonds." 

"Ay  ?".  he  replied.  But  he  said  no 
more. 

"  I'll  tell  you  why  I  ask,"  said  Ma- 
ria. "Mr.  Snow  has  been  here,  and 
he  informs  me  that  the  coming  to  the 
bank  daily,  the  worry,  is  killing  Mr. 
Godolphin.  He  says  Mr.  George 
ought  to  be  back  in  his  brother's 
place.  I  think  if  he  can  come,  he 
ought." 

"  I  wish  he  could,"  returned  Mr. 
Hurde,  more  quickly  and  impressively 
than  he  usually  spoke.  "  It  is  killing 
Mr.  Godolphin, — that,  and  the  bank- 
ruptcy together.  But  I  don't  know 
that  it  would  be  safe  for  him,  on  ac- 
count of  these  very  bonds,  —  Lord 
Averil's." 

"  What  else  is  there  against  him  ?" 
breathed  Maria. 

"  There's  nothing  else." 

"  Nothing  else  ?"  she  echoed,  a 
shade  of  hope  lighting  up  her  face 
and  her  heart. 

"  Nothing  else.  That  is,  nothing 
that  he  can  be  made  criminally  re- 
sponsible for,"  added  the  old  clerk, 
with  marked  emphasis,  as  if  he  thought 
that  there  was  a  great  deal  more,  had 
21 


the  law  but  taken  cognizance  of  it. 
If  Lord  Averil  should  decline  to  prose- 
cute), he  might  come  back  to-morrow. 
He  must  be  back  soon,  whether  or 
not,   to   answer   to   his   bankruptcy ; 

or  else " 

"  Or  else, — what  ?"  asked  Maria, 
falteringly,  for  Mr.  Hurde  had  stop- 
ped. 

"  Or  else  never  come  back  at  all, — . 
never  be  seen,  in  fact,  in  England. 
That's  how  it  is,  ma'am." 

"Would  it  not  be  well  to  ascertain 
Lord  Averil's  feelings  upon  the  sub- 
ject, Mr.  Hurde  ?"  she  rejoined,  break- 
ing a  silence. 

"  It  would  be  very  well,  if  it  could 
be  done.     But  who  is  to  do  it  ?" 

Maria  was  beginning  to  think  that 
she  would.  "  You  are  sure  there  is 
nothing  else  against  him  V  ohe  re- 
iterated. 

"  Nothing  that  need  prevent  his 
returning  to  Prior's  Ash." 

There  was  no  more  to  be  answered, 
and  Mr.  Hurde  withdrew.  Maria  lost 
herself  in  thought.  Could  she  dare 
to  go  to  Lord  Averil  and  beseech  his 
clemency  ?  Her  brow  flushed  at  the 
thought.  But  she  had  been  inured 
to  humiliation  of  late,  and  it  would 
be  but  another  di*op  in  the  cup  of 
pain.  Oh,  the  relief  it  would  be  could 
the  dreadful  suspense,  the  uncertainty, 
end  !  The  suspense  was  awful.  Even 
if  it  ended  in  the  worst,  it  would  be 
almost  a  relief.  If  Lord  Averil  should 
be  intending  to  prosecute,  who  knew 
but  he  might  forego  the  intention  at 
her  prayers  ?  If  so, — if  so, — why,  she 
should  ever  say  that  God  had  sent  her 
to  him. 

There  was  the  reverse  side  of  the 
picture.  A  haughty  reception  of  her 
— for  was  she  not  the  wife  of  the  man 
who  had  wronged  him  ? — and  a  cold 
refusal.  How  she  should  bear  that 
she  did  not  like  to  think.  Should 
she  go  ?     Could  she  go  ?     Even  now 

her  heart  was  failing  her ■ 

What  noise  was  that?  A  sort  of 
commotion  in  the  hall  ?  She  opened 
the  dining-room  door  and  glanced  out 
Thomas  Godolphin,  leaning  on  his 
servant  Bexley's  arm,  had  come,  and 


338 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


was  entering  the  bank,  there  to  go 
through  his  day's  work,  looking  more 
fit  to  be  in  his  coffin.  It  was  the 
turning  of  the  scale. 

"  I  will  go  to  him  !"  murmured 
Maria  to  herself.  "I  will  go  to  Lord 
Averil  and  hear  all  there  may  be  to 
hear.  Let  me  do  it !  Let  me  do  it ! — 
for  the  sake  of  Thomas  Godolphin  !" 


CHAPTER  LIII. 


A  VISIT  OF  PAIN. 


The  proposed  application  of  Maria 
firodolphin  to  Lord  Averil  may  appear 
but  a  very  slight  affair  to  the  careless 
and  thoughtless, — one  of  those  trifling 
annoyances  which  must  occasionally 
beset  our  course  through  life.  Why 
should  Maria  have  shrunk  from  it 
with  that  shiveringly  sensitive  dread  ? 
. — and  have  set  about  it  as  a  forced 
duty,  with  a  burning  cheek  and  fail- 
ing heart  ?  Consider  what  it  was 
that  she  undertook,  you  who  would 
regard  it  lightly ;  pause  an  instant 
and  look  at  it  in  all  its  bearings. 
Her  husband,  George  Godolphin,  had 
robbed  Lord  Averil  of  sixteen  thou- 
sand pounds ;  or  their  value.  It  is 
of  no  use  to  mince  the  matter.  He 
had  shown  himself  neither  more  nor 
less  than  a  common  robber,  a  thief,  a 
swindler.  He,  a  man  of  the  same 
social  stamp  as  Lord  Averil,  moving 
in  the  same  sphere  of  county  society, 
had  fallen  from  his  pedestal  by  his 
own  fraudulent  act,  down  to  a  level 
(in  crime)  with  the  very  dregs  of 
mankind.  Perhaps  no  one  in  the 
whole  world  could  ever  feel  it  in  the 
same  humiliating  degree  as  did  his 
wife, — unless  it  might  be  Thomas 
Godolphin.  Both  of  them,  unfor- 
tunately for  them, — yes,  I  say  it  ad- 
visedly— unfortunately  for  them  in 
this  bitter  storm  of  shame, — both  of 
them  were  of  that  honorable,  upright, 
ultra-refined  nature  on  which  such  a 
blow  falls  far  more  cruelly  than  death. 
Death  !  death  !     If  it   does   come,  it 


brings  at  least  one  recompense  :  the 
humiliation  and  the  trouble,  the  bitter 
pain  and  the  carking  care  are  escaped 
from,  left  behind  forever  in  the  cruel 
world.  Oh,  if  these  miserable  ill- 
doers  could  but  bear  in  their  own 
person  all  the  pain  and  shame ! — if 
George  Godolphin  could  but  have 
stood  out  on  a  pinnacle  in  the  face  of 
Prior's  Ash  and  expiated  all  his  folly 
alone  !  But  it  could  not  be.  It  never 
can  or  shall  be.  As  the  sins  of  the 
people  in  the  Israelitish  camp  were 
laid  upon  the  innocent  and  unhappy 
scape-goat,  the  sins  which  men  com- 
mit in  the  present  day  are  heaped  upon 
unconscious  and  guileless  heads.  As 
the  poor  scape-goat  wandered  away 
with  his  hidden  burden  into  the  re- 
mote wilderness,  away  from  the 
haunts  of  man,  so  do  these  other 
heavily-laden  ones  stagger  away  with 
their  unseen  load,  only  striving  to 
hide  themselves  from  the  eyes  of  men 
— anywhere — in  patience  and  silence 
. — praying  to  die. 

Every  humiliation  which .  George 
Godolphin  had  brought  upon  himself 
— every  harsh  word  cast  to  him  by 
the  world — every  innate  sense  of 
guilt  and  shame,  which  must  accom- 
pany such  conduct,  was  being  ex- 
piated by  his  wife.  Yes,  it  fell  worst 
upon  her:  Thomas  was  but  his 
brother ;  she  was  part  and  parcel  of 
himself.  But  that  God's  ways  are  not 
as  our  ways,  we  might  feel  tempted 
to  ask  why  it  should  be  that  these 
terrible  trials  are  so  often  brought 
upon  the  head  of  siich  women  as 
Maria  Godolphin, — timid,  good,  gen- 
tle, sensitive, — the  least  of  all  able  to 
bear  them.  That  such  is  frequently 
the  case,  is  indisputable.  In  no  way 
was  Maria  fitted  to  cope  with  this. 
Many  might  have  felt  less  this  very 
expedition  to  Lord  Averil :  to  her  it 
was  as  the  very  bitterest  humiliation. 
She  had  hitherto  met  Loi'd  Averil  as 
an  equal ;  she  had  entertained  him  at 
her  house  as  such  ;  she  had  stood 
before  him  always  in  her  calm  self- 
possession,  with  a  clear  face  and  a 
clear  conscience.  And  now  she  must 
go  to  him,  a  humble  petitioner ;  bow 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASIILYDYAT. 


339 


before  liim  in  all  her  self-conscious 
disgrace ;  implore  him  to  save  her 
husband  from  the  consequences  of  his 
criminal  act, — the  standing  at  the 
felon's  bar  and  its  sequel,  the  work- 
ing at  the  hulks.  She  must  virtually 
ask  Lord  Averil  to  put  up  quietly 
with  the  loss  of  the  sixteen  thousand 
pounds,  and  to  make  no  sign. 

With  a  cheek  flushed  with  emotion, 
with  a  heart  sick  unto  faintness, 
Maria  Godolphin  stepped  out  of  her 
house  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  midday 
sun.  A  gloomy  day,  showing  hei*- 
sclf  less  conspicuously  to  the  curious 
gazers  of  Prior's  Ash  had  been  more 
welcome  to  her.  She  had  gone  out 
so  rarely  since  the  crash  came — but 
that  once,  in  fact,  when  she  went  to 
see  her  mother — that  her  appearance 
was  the  signal  for  a  commotion. 
"  There's  Mrs.  George  Godolphin  ! 
There's  Mrs.  George  Godolphin !" 
and  Prior's  Ash  flocked  to  its  doors 
and  its  windows  as  if  Mrs.  George 
Godolphin  had  been  some  unknown 
curiosity  in  the  animal  world,  never 
yet  exhibited  to  the  eyes  of  the  public. 
Maria  shielded  her  burning  face  from 
observation  as  well  as  she  could  with 
her  small  parasol,  and  passed  on. 

Lord  Averil,  she  had  found,  was 
staying  with  Colonel  Max,  and  her 
way  led  her  past  the  rectory  of  All 
Souls,  past  the  house  of  Lady  Sarah 
Grame.  Lady  Sarah  was  at  the  win- 
dow, and  Maria  bowed.  The  bow 
was  not  returned.  It  was  not  returned ! 
■ — Lady  Sarah  turned  away  with  a 
haughty  movement,  a  cold  glance. 
It  told  cruelly  upon  Maria.  Had  any 
thing  been  wanted  to  prove  to  her  the 
estimation  in  which  she  was  now  held 
by  Prior's  Ash,  that  would  have 
done  it. 

The  distance  from  her  own  house 
to  that  of  Colonel  Max  was  about 
two  miles.  Rather  a  long  walk  for 
Maria  at  the  present  time,  for  she  was 
not  in  a  condition  of  health  to  endure 
fatigue.  It  was  a  square,  moderate- 
sized,  red-brick  house,  standing  con- 
siderably back  from  the  high-road, 
and  as  Maria  turned  into  its  avenue 
of  approach,  what  with  the  walk,  and 


what  with  the  dread  apprehension  of 
the  coming  interview,  the  sick  faint- 
ness at  her  heart  had  begun  to  show 
itself  upon  her  face.  The  insult  of- 
fered her  (could  it  be  called  any  thing 
less  ?)  by  Lady  Sarah  Grame  had 
somehow  seemed  an  earnest  of  what 
she  might  expect  from  Lord  Averil. 
Lady  Sarah  had  not  a  tenth  of  the 
grievance  against  the  bank  that  the 
viscount  had. 

Nobody  ever  approached  the  col- 
onel's house  without  having  their  ears 
saluted  with  the  baying  and  snarling 
of  his  fox-hounds,  whose  kennels  were 
close  by.  In  happier  days — days  so 
recently  past,  that  they  might  almost 
be  counted  as  present — when  Maria 
had  gone  to  that  house  to  dinner- 
parties, she  had  drawn  closer  to 
George  in  the  carriage,  and  whispered 
how  much  she  should  dislike  it  if  he 
kept  a  pack  of  fox-hounds  near  their 
dwelling-place.  Never,  never  should 
she  drive  to  that  house  in  state  again, 
her  husband  by  her  side.  Oh,  the 
contrast  it  presented, — that  time  and 
this  !  Now  she  was  approaching  it 
like  the  criminal  that  the  world  thought 
her,  hiding  her  face  with  her  vail, — 
hiding  herself,  so  far  as  she  might,  from 
observation. 

She  reached  the  door,  and  paused 
ere  she  rang :  her  pulses  were  throb- 
bing wildly,  her  heart  beat  as  if  it 
would  burst  its  bounds.  The  nearer 
that  the  interview  drew,  the  more 
formidable  did  it  appear,  the  less  able 
herself  to  face  it.  The  temptation 
came  over  her — to  go  back.  It  as- 
sailed her  very  strongly,  and  she 
might  have  yielded  to  it,  but  for  the 
thought  of  Thomas  Godolphin. 

She  rang  at  the  bell, — a  timid  ring. 
One  of  those  rings  that  seem  to  an- 
nounce the  self-humble  applicant, — 
and  who  was  the  wife  of  George  Go- 
dolphin now,  that  she  should  proclaim 
herself  with  pomp  and  clatter  ?  A 
man  settling  himself  into  his  green 
livery  coat  opened  the  door. 

"  Is  Lord  Averil  within  F" 

"No." 

The  servant  was  a  stranger,  and  did 
not  know  her.    He  may  have  thought 


340 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


it  curious  that  a  lady,  who  spoke  in  a 
low  tone,  and  scarcely  raised  her  eyes 
through  her  vail,  should  come  there 
alone  to  inquire  after  Lord  Averil. 
He  resumed,  rather  pertly: 

"  His  lordship  walked  out  an  hour 
ago  with  the  colonel.  It's  quite  un- 
beknown what  time  they  may  come 
in." 

In  her  shrinking  dread  of  the  inter- 
view, it  almost  seemed  a  relief. 
Strange  to  say,  so  fully  absorbed  had 
she  been  in  the  anticipated  pain,  that 
the  contingency  of  his  being  out  had 
not  crossed  her  mind.  The  man  stood 
with  the  door  in  his  hand,  half  open, 
half  closed  :  had  he  invited  her  to 
walk  in  and  sit  down,  she  might  have 
done  so,  for  the  sake  of  the  rest.  But 
he  did  not. 

Retracing  her  steps  down  the  path, 
she  branched  off  into  a  dark  walk, 
overshadowed  by  trees,  just  within 
the  entrance-gate,  and  sat  down  upon 
a  bench.  Now,  the  reaction  was  com- 
ing :  the  disappointment :  all  that 
mental  agony,  all  that  weary  way  of 
fatigue,  and  not  to  see  him  I  It  must 
all  be  gone  over  again  on  the  morrow. 

She  threw  her  hot  vail  back ;  she 
pressed  her  throbbing  forehead  against 
the  thick  trunk  of  the  old  oak-tree  : 
and  in  that  same  moment  some  one 
entered  the  gate  on  his  way  to  the 
house,  saw  her,  and  turned  short 
round  to  approach  her.  It  was  Lord 
Averil. 

Was  the  moment  really  come  ? 
Every  drop  of  blood  in  her  body 
seemed  to  rush  to  her  heart,  and  send 
it  on  with  a  tumultuous  bound, — 
every  sense  of  the  mind  seemed  to 
leave  her, — every  fear  that  the  im- 
agination can  conjure  up,  seemed  to 
rise  up  in  menace.  She  rose  to  her 
feet  and  gazed  at  him,  her  sight  par- 
tially leaving  her,  her  face  changing 
to  a  ghastly  whiteness. 

But  when  he  hastened  forward  and 
caught  her  hands  in  the  deepest  re- 
spect and  sympathy  ;  when  he  bent 
over  her,  saying  some  confused  words 
— confused  to  her  ear — of  surpi*ise  at 
seeing  her,  of  pity  for  her  apparent 
illness  j  when  he  addressed  her  with 


every  token  of  the  old  kindness,  the 
consideration  of  bygone  days,  then 
the  revulsion  of  feeling  overcame  her, 
and  Maria  burst  into  a  flood  of  dis- 
tressing tears,  and  sobbed  passion- 
ately. 

"  I  am  fatigued  with  the  walk,"  she 
said,  with  a  lame  attempt  at  apology 
when  her  emotion  was  subsiding.  "I 
came  over  to  speak  to  you,  Lord 
Averil.  I — I — have  something  to  ask 
you." 

"But  you  should  not  have  walked," 
he  answered,  in  a  kind  tone  of  remon- 
strance. "Why  did  you  not  drop  me 
a  note  ?     I  would  have  come  to  you." 

She  felt  as  one  about  to  faint.  She 
had  taken  off  her  gloves,  her  small, 
white  hands  were  unconsciously  writh- 
ing themselves  together  in  her  lap, 
showing  how  great  was  her  inward 
pain ;  her  trembling  lips,  pale  with 
agitation,  refused  to  bring  out  their 
words  connectedly. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  merciful  to  my 
husband.     Not  to  prosecute." 

The  gasping  words  were  breathed 
in  a  whisper ;  the  rushing  tide  of 
shame  changed  her  face  to  crimson. 
Lord  Averil  did  not  for  the  moment 
answer,  and  the  delay,  the  fear  of 
non-success  imparted  to  her  some- 
what of  courage. 

"For  Thomas's  sake,"  she  said.  "I 
ask  it  for  Thomas's  sake." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Godolphin,"  he  was 
beginning,  but  she  interrupted  him, 
her  tone  changing  to  one  of  desperate 
energy. 

"  Oh,  be  merciful,  be  merciful !  Be 
merciful  to  my  husband,  Lord  Averil, 
for  his  brother's  sake.  Nay — for 
George's  own  sake,  for  my  sake,  for 
my  poor  child's  sake,  Meta's.  He  can 
never  come  back  to  Prior's  Ash,  un- 
less you  will  be  merciful  to  him ;  he 
cannot  come  now,  and  Thomas  has 
to  go  through  all  the  worry  and  the 
misery,  and  it  is  killing  him.  Mr. 
Snow  came  to  me  this  morning  and 
said  it  was  killing  him ;  and  said  that 
George  must  come  back  if  he  would 
save  his  brother's  life  :  and  I  spoke  to 
Mr.  Hurde,  and  he  said  there  was 
nothing  to  prevent  his  coming  back, 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


341 


except  the  danger  from  Lord  Averil. 
And  then  I  made  my  mind  up  to  come 
to  you." 

"  I  shall  not  prosecute  him,  Mrs. 
George  Godolphin.  My  long  friend- 
ship with  his  brother  debars  it.  He 
may  come  back  to-morrow,  in  perfect 
assurance  that  he  has  nothing  to  fear 
from  me." 

"  It  is  true  ? — I  may  rely  upon  you  ?" 
she  gasped. 

"  Indeed  you  may.  I  have  never 
had  a  thought  of  prosecuting.  I  can- 
not describe  to  you  the  pain  that  it 
has  been  productive  of  to  me  :  I  mean 
the  affair  altogether,  not  my  particular 
loss  :  but  that  pain  would  be  greatly 
increased  were  I  to  bring  myself  to 
prosecute  one  bearing  the  name  of 
Godolphin.  I  am  sorry  for  George  ; 
deeply  sorry  for  him.  Report  says 
that  he  has  allowed  himself  to  fall  in- 
to bad  hands,  and  could  not  extricate 
himself." 

The  worst  was  over ;  the  best 
known :  and  Maria  leaned  against  the 
friendly  trunk  and  untied  her  bonnet- 
strings,  and  wiped  the  moisture  from 
her  now-pallid  face.  Exhaustion  was 
now  supervening.  Lord  Averil  rose 
and  held  out  his  arm  to  her. 

"  Let  me  take  you  to  the  house  and 
give  you  a  glass  of  sherry." 

"  I  could  not  take  it,  thank  you.  I 
would  rather  not  go  to  the  house." 

"  Colonel  Max  will  be  very  glad  to 
see  you.  I  have  but  just  parted  with 
him.     He  went  round  by  the  stables." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  do  not 
like  to  see  any  one  now." 

The  subdued  words,  the  saddened 
tone  seemed  to  speak  volumes.  Lord 
Averil  glanced  down  at  her  compas- 
sionately. "  This  has  been  a  grievous 
trial  to  you,  Mrs.  Godolphin." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  very  quietly. 
Had  she  spoken  but  a  word  of  what 
it  had  really  been  to  her,  emotion 
might  have  broken  forth. 

"  But  you  must  not  let  it  affect  you 
too  greatly,"  he  remonstrated.  "As  I 
fear  it  is  doing  " 

"I  can't  help  it,"  she  whispered. 
"  I  knew  nothing  of  it,  and  it  came 
upon  me   like  a  clap  of  thunder.     I 


never  had  so  much  as  a  suspicion  thnt 
any  thing  was  going  wrong :  had 
people  asked  me  what  bank  was  the 
most  stable  throughout  the  kingdonj, 
I  should  have  said  ours.  I  never 
suspected  evil :  and  yet  the  blame  is 
being  cast  to  me.  Lord  Averil,  I — I 
— did  not  know  about  those  bonds." 

"No,  no,"  he  warmly  answered. 
"You  need  not  tell  me  that.  I  wish 
you  could  let  the  trouble  pass  over 
you  lightly." 

The  trouble  !  She  clasped  her 
hands  to  pain.  "Don't  speak  of  it," 
she  wailed.  "At  times  it  seems  more 
than  I  can  bear.  But  for  Meta,  I 
should  be  glad  to  die." 

What  was  Lord  Averil  to  answer  ? 
He  could  only  give  her  the  earnest 
sympathy  of  his  whole  heart.  "A  man 
who  can  bring  deliberately  this  misery 
upon  the  wife  of  his  bosom  deserves 
hanging,"  was  his  bitter  thought. 

"What  are  you.  going  to  do  ?"  he 
asked.  "  Surely  not  to  attempt  to 
walk  back  ?" 

"  I  shall  take  my  time  over  it,"  she 
answered.  "It  is  not  much  of  a 
walk." 

"  Too  much  for  you  at  present,"  he 
gravely  said.  "  Let  me  send  you  home 
in  one  of  Colonel  Max's  carriages." 

"No,  oh  no,"  she  quickly  answered. 
"  Indeed  I  have  not  miscalculated  my 
strength  :  I  can  walk  perfectly  well, 
and  would  prefer  to  do  so." 

"Then  you  will  come  into  the  house 
and  take  a  rest  first." 

"I  had  rather  not.  Let  me  sit 
here  a  little  longer  :  it  is  resting  me." 

"  I  will  be  back  immediately,"  he 
said,  walking  from  her  very  quickly, 
and  plunging  into  a  narrow  path 
which  was  a  short  cut  to  the  house. 
When  he  reappeared  he  bore  a  glass 
of  wine  and  biscuit  on  a  plate. 

She  drank  the  wine.  The  biscuit 
she  put  back  with  a  shiver.  "I  never 
can  eat  any  thing  now,"  she  said,  lift- 
ing her  eyes  to  his  to  beseech  his  par- 
don. 

When  she  at  length  rose,  Lord 
Averil  took  her  hand  and  laid  it  within 
his  arm.  She  supposed  he  meant  to 
escort  her  to  the  gate. 


342 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


"  I  have  not  said  a  word  of  thanks 
to  you,"  she  murmured,  when  they 
reached  it.  "  I  am  very,  very  grateful 
to  you,  very  sensible  of  your  kindness ; 
but  I  cannot  speak  of  it.  My  heart 
seems  broken." 

She  had  halted  and  held  out  her 
hand  in  farewell.  Lord  Averil  did 
not  release  her,  but  walked  on.  "  If 
you  will  walk  home,  Mrs.  George  Go- 
dolphin,  you  must  at  least  allow  my 
arm  to  help  you." 

"  I  could  not;  indeed  I  could  not," 
she  said,  stopping  resolutely,  though 
the  teal's  were  dropping  from  her  eyes. 
"  I  must  go  back  alone, — I  would 
rather." 

Lord  Averil  yielded  partially.  The 
first  part  of  the  road  was  lonely,  and 
he  must  see  her  so  far.  "  I  should 
have  called  on  Thomas  Godolphin 
before  this,  but  I  have  been  away," 
he  remarked,  as  they  went  on.  "I 
will  go  and  see  him, — perhaps  this 
afternoon." 

"  He  will  be  so  thankful  to  hear  of 
this  !  It  will  be  like  a  renewed  lease 
of  life.  They  have  been  fearful  at 
Ashlydyat." 

An  exceedingly  vexed  expression 
crossed  Lord  Averil's  lips.  "  I  thought 
they  had  known  me  better  at  Ashly- 
dyat," he  said.  "  Thomas,  at  any  rate. 
Feared  met" 

At  length  Maria  would  not  allow 
him  to  go  farther,  and  Lord  Averil 
clasped  her  hand  in  both  of  his:"  Pro- 
mise me  to  try  and  keep  up  your 
spirits,"  he  said.  "  For  your  hus- 
band's sake." 

"Yes;  as  well  as  I  can,"  she  re- 
plied, in  a  broken  tone.  "  Thank  you  ! 
thank  you  ever,  Lord  Averil  !" 

She  called  in  at  the  rectory  as  she 
passed  it,  and  sat  for  a  while  with  her 
father  and  mother.  But  it  was  pain 
to  her  to  do  so.  The  bitter  wrong 
inflicted  upon  them  by  her  husband, 
was  making  itself  heard  in  her  heart 
in  loud  reproaches.  The  bitter  wrong 
of  another  kind  dealt  out  to  herself  by 
him,  was  all  too  present  then.  They 
knew  how  she  had  idolized  him  ;  they 
must  have  known  how  blindly  mis- 
placed  that   idolatry   was ;    and   the 


red  flush  mounted  to  Maria's  brow  at 
the  thought. 

Oh,  if  she  could  but  redeem  the 
past,  so  far  as  they  were  concerned  ! 
It  seemed  that  that  would  be  enough. 
If  she  could  but  restore  peace  and 
comfort  to  their  home,  refund  to  her 
father  what  he  had  lost,  how  thankful 
she  should  be  !  She  would  move 
heaven  and  earth  if  that  might  accom- 
plish it, — she  would  spend  her  own 
days  in  the  workhouse, — pass  them 
by  a  roadside  hedge,  and  think  noth- 
ing of  it, — if  by  those  means  she  could 
remove  the  wrong  done.  She  lifted 
her  eyes  to  the  blue  sky,  almost  ask- 
ing that  a  miracle  might  be  wrought, 
to  repair  the  injury  which  had  been 
dealt  out  to  her  father.  Ah  me  !  If 
Heaven  repaired  all  the  injuries  in- 
flicted by  man  upon  man,  it  would 
surely  have  no  time  for  other  works 
of  mercy  ! 


CHAPTER   LIT. 

A  SHOW  IN  THE  STREETS  OF  PRIOR'S  ASH. 

Barely  had  Maria  departed  and 
closed  the  rectory-gate  behind  her, 
when  she  encountered  a  stylish  vehicle 
as  high  as  a  mountain,  dashing  along 
at  an  alarming  pace,  with  a  couple  of 
frantic  dogs  behind  it.  It  was  that 
"  turn  out"  you  have  heard  of,  belong- 
ing to  Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain.  Mrs. 
Charlotte  Pain  was  in  it,  resplendent 
as  the  sun,  dazzling  the  admiring  eyes 
of  Prior's  Ash  in  a  gown  of  pink  moire 
antique,  and  a  head  gear  which  ap- 
peared to  be  composed  of  pink  and 
white  feathers  and  a  glittering  silver 
aigrette,  its  form  altogether  not  unlike 
a  French  gendarme's  hat,  if  you  have 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  that  awe- 
giving  article.  At  the  sight  of  Maria 
she  pulled  the  horses  up  with  a  jerk : 
upon  which  ensued  some  skirmishing 
and  scattering  abroad  of  dust,  the 
animals,  both  horses  and  dogs,  not 
approving  of  so  summary  a  check ; 
but  Charlotte  was  resolute,  and  her 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


343 


whip  effective.  She  then  flung  the 
reins  to  the  groom  who  sat  beside  her, 
jumped  out,  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
Maria. 

Maria  accepted  it.  The  revelation 
gratuitously  bestowed  on  her  by- 
Margery  was  beating  its  words  upon 
her  memory,  and  her  brow,  face,  and 
in  ck  had  flushed  to  a  glowing  crim- 
son. Some  might  have  flung  the 
offered  hand  aside,  and  picked  up 
their  skirts  with  a  jerk,  and  sailed 
away  with  an  air :  but  Maria  was  a 
gentlewoman. 

"  How  well  you  look  !"  exclaimed 
Charlotte,  regarding  her  in  some  sur- 
prise. "  Perhaps  you  are  warm  ?  I 
say,  Mrs.  George" — dropping  her  voice 
to  a  whisper — "  where  do  you  think 
I  am  bound  to  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell." 

"  To  see  Lord  Averil.  He  is  back 
again,  and  stopping  at  old  Max's.  I 
am  going  to  badger  him  out  of  a 
promise  not  to  hurt  George  Godolpbin, 
— about  those  rubbishing  bonds,  you 
know.  I  won't  leave  him  until  I  get 
it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Maria. 

"  I  will  have  it.  Or — war  to  the 
knife,  my  lord  !  I  should  like  to  see 
him,  or  anybody  else,  attempt  to  re- 
fuse me  any  thing  I  stood  out  for," 
she  added,  with  a  triumphantly  saucy 
glance,  meant  for  the  absent  viscount. 
"  Poor  George  has  nobody  here  to 
fight  his  battles  for  him,  and  he  can't 
return  to  enter  on  them  in  person  ;  so 
it's  well  that  some  friend  should  do  it. 
They  are  saying  in  the  town  this 
morning,  that  Averil  has  returned 
for  the  purpose  of  prosecuting :  I 
mean  to  cut  his  prosecuting  claws 
off." 

"  It  is  a  mistake,"  said  Maria. 
"  Lord  Averil  has  no  intention  of 
prosecuting." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"  bluntly  asked 
Charlotte. 

"  I  have  just  seen  him." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  have 
been  over  to  old  Max's  ?"  exclaimed 
Charlotte,  opening  her  brilliant  black 
eves  very  wide. 
""Yes  I  have." 


"You  quiet  sly-boots  !  You  have 
never  walked  there  and  back  ?" 

"  I  don't  feel  very  tired.  I  have 
been  resting  with  mamma  for  half  an 
hour." 

"And  he's  safe — Averil  ?"  eagerly 
continued  Charlotte. 

"  Quite  safe.  Remember  his  long 
friendship  with  Thomas  Goldolphin." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  men  forget  friend- 
ship when  their  pockets  are  in  ques- 
tion," was  the  light  remark  of  Char- 
lotte. "  You  are  sure,  though,  Averil's 
not  deceiving  you  ?  I  don't  much 
think  he  is  one  to  do  a  dirty  trick  of 
that  sort,  but  I  have  lived  long  enough 
to  learn  that  you  must  prove  a  man 
before  you  trust  him." 

"  Lord  Averil  is  not  deceiving  me," 
quietly  answered  Maria.  "  He  has 
given  me  a  message  for  my  hus- 
band." 

"  Then  there's  no  necessity  for  my 
going  to  him,"  said  Charlotte.  "  Let 
me  drive  you  home,  Mrs.  George  Go- 
dolphin.  I  am  sure  you  are  fatigued. 
I  never  saw  any  one  change  counten- 
ance as  you  do.  A  few  minutes  ago 
you  looked  vulgarly  hot,  and  now  you 
are  pale  enough  for  the  grave.  Step 
in.  James,  you  must  change  to  the 
back-seat." 

Step  into  that  formidably  high  thing, 
and  sit  by  Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain's  side, 
and  dash  through  Prior's  Ash  !  Maria 
wondered  whether  the  gossips  of 
Prior's  Ash — who,  as  it  seemed,  had 
made  so  free  with  gay  George's  name 
— or  Margery,  would  stare  the  most. 
She  declined  the  invitation. 

"  You  are  afraid,"  cried  Charlotte. 
"  Well,  it's  a  great  misfortune,  these 
timid  temperaments,  but  I  suppose 
they  can't  be  cured.  Kate  Verrall's 
another  coward  :  but  she's  not  as  bad 
as  you.   Toss  me  my  parasol,  James." 

James  handed  his  mistress  a  charm- 
ing toy  of  pink  moire  antique  silk 
and  point-lace,  mounted  on  a  handle 
of  carved  ivory.  Charlotte  put  it  up 
before  her  face,  and  turned  to  accom- 
pany Maria. 

Maria  put  her  parasol  up  before 
her  face  thankful  that  it  might  servo 
to  shield  it,  if  only  partially,  from  the 


3-U 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


curious  eyes  of  Prior's  Ash.  Re- 
membering the  compliments  that 
Prior's  Ash  had  been  kind  enough  to 
pass  on  her  "  simplicity,"  she  would 
not  exactly  have  chosen  her  present 
companion  to  walk  through  the  streets 
with.  Dame  Bond,  with  her  unsteady 
steps  and  her  snuffy-black  gown, 
would  have  been  preferable  of  the 
two. 

"  But,"  thought  Maria  in  her  gene- 
rosity, striving  to  thrust  that  other 
unpleasant  feeling  clown  deep  in  her 
heart,  to  lose  sight  of  it,  "it  is  really 
kind  of  Mrs.  Pain  to  be  seen  thus 
publicly  with  me.  Other  ladies 
would  be  ashamed  of  me  now,  I  sup- 
pose." 

They  stepped  on.  Maria  with  her 
parasol  so  close  to  her  face  that  there 
was  a  danger  of  her  running  against 
people ;  Charlotte  turning  herself 
from  side  to  side,  flirting  the  costly 
little  pink  toy  as  one  flirts  a  fan,  bow- 
ing and  scraping  to  all  she  met.  The 
dogs  snarled  and  barked  behind  ;  the 
carriage  pranced  and  curvetted  by 
their  side  ;  the  unhappy  James  having 
his  hands  full  with  the  horses,  which 
took  a  high  standing,  and  refused  to 
recognize  any  controlling  mastership 
save  that  of  Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain. 
Altogether,  it  was  a  more  conspicu- 
ous progress  than  Maria  would  have 
chosen :  but  we  are  let  in  for  great- 
ness sometimes,  you  know,  against 
our  will.  Thus  they  arrived  at  the 
bank,  and  Maria  held  out  her  hand  to 
Charlotte.  She  could  not  be  other- 
wise than  courteous,  no  matter  to 
whom. 

"  I  am  coming  in,"  said  Charlotte, 
bluntly.  "  Take  care  what  you  are 
about  with  the  horses,  James." 

Maria  led  the  way  to  the  dining- 
room.  All  was  as  it  used  to  be  in 
that  charming  room  ;  furniture,  pic- 
tures, elegant  trifles  for  show  or  for 
use  ;  all  was  the  same  :  save — that 
those  things  belonged  not  now  to 
Maria  and  her  husband,  but  were 
noted  down  as  the  property  of  others, 
— soon,  soon  to  be  put  up  for  sale  ! 
Charlotte's  rich  moire  antique  came 
to  an  anchor  on  a  sofa,  and  she  untied 


the  string  of  the  gendarme  hat,  and 
pushed  it-back  on  her  head. 

"I  am  going  to  leave  Prior  Ash." 

"  To  leave  Prior's  Ash  !"  repeated 
Maria.     "  When  ?" 

"Within  a  week  of  this  Lady 
Godolphin's  coming  back  to  the 
Polly." 

"But — Lady  Godolphin  cannot  come 
back  to  it  without  giving  you  due 
notice  to  quit  ?"  debated  Maria. 

"It's  all  arranged,"  said  Charlotte, 
opening  her  mouth  with  a  loud  yawn. 
"  Lady  Godolphin  wrote  to  Verrall, 
and  the  arrangements  have  been 
agreed  upon  amicably.  Lady  Godol- 
phin foregoes  a  certain  portion  of  rent, 
and  we  go  out  immediate!}'.  I  am 
very  glad,  do  you  know.  I  had  made 
my  mind  up  not  to  stay.  As  to  the 
Verralls,  it  may  be  said  that  they 
virtually  took  leave  of  the  Folly  long 
ago.  Uncommonly  glad  I  shall  be  to 
leave  it,"  repeated  Charlotte,  with 
emphasis. 

"Why?" 

"  Who'd  care  to  stay  at  Prior's  Ash, 
after  all  this  bother  ?  You  and 
George  will  be  leaving  it  for  London, 
you  know, — and  I  hope  it  won't  be 
long  first.  You  must  make  me  useful 
up  there,  Mrs.  George.     I'll " 

"  Who  told  you  we  were  going  to 
leave  for  London  ?"  interrupted  Maria, 
in  astonishment. 

"  Nobody  told  me.  But  of  course 
you  will.  Do  you  suppose  George 
Godolphin  will  care  to  stop  amongst 
this  set  ?  Not  he.  He'd  see  Prior's 
Ash  promenading  first.  What  tie 
has  he  here,  now  Ashlydyat's  gone  ? 
Yerrall  talks  of  buying  a  hunting-box 
in  Leicestershire." 

"  Does  he,"  replied  Maria,  mechani- 
cally, her  thoughts  buried  elsewhere. 

"  Buying  or  hiring  one.  7  should 
hire ;  and  then  there's  no  bother  if 
you  want  to  make  a  flitting.  But 
Verrall  is  one  who  takes  nobody's 
counsel  but  his  own.  What  a  worry 
it  will  be !"  added  Charlotte,  after  a 
pause. 

Maria  raised  her  eyes.  She  did  not 
understand  the  question. 

"  The  packing-up  of  the  things  at 


THE      S  FI  A  D  O  W      OF      ASI1LYDYAT 


345 


the  Folly,"  explained  Charlotte.  "We 
begin  to-morrow  morning.  I  must 
be  at  the  head  of  it,  for  it's  of  no  use 
trusting  that  sort  of  work  entirely  to 
servants.  Bon  jour,  petite  coquette  ! 
Et  les  ponpees  ?" 

The  diversion  was  caused  by  the 
flying  entrance  of  Miss  Meta.  The 
young  lady  was  not  yet  particularly 
well  up  in  the  Gallic  language,  and 
only  half  understood.  She  went 
straight  up  to  Mrs.  Pain,  threw  her 
soft,  sweet  eyes  right  into  that  lady's 
flashing  black  ones,  rested  her  pretty 
arms  upon  the  moire  antique,  and 
spoke  out  with  her  accustomed  bold- 
ness. 

"  Where  are  the  dogs  now  ?" 

"  Chained  down  in  the  pit-hole," 
responded  Mrs.  Pain. 

"  Margery  says  there  is  no  pit-hole, 
and  the  dogs  were  not  chained  down," 
asserted  Meta. 

"  Margery's  nothing  but  an  old 
woman  :  don't  you  believe  her.  If 
she  tells  stories  again  we'll  chain  her 
down  with  the  dogs." 

"  Two  of  the  dogs  are  outside," 
said  Meta,  >, 

"  Not  the  same  clogs,  child,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Pain,  with  cool  equani- 
mity. "  They  are  street-dogs,  those 
are." 

"  They  are  with  the  carriage,"  per- 
sisted Meta.  "  They  are  barking 
around  it," 

"  Are  they  barking  ?  They  can 
see  Margery's  face  at  the  nursery 
window,  and  are  frightened  at  it. 
Dogs  always  bark  at  ugly  old  women's 
faces.     You  tell  Margery  so." 

"  Margery's  not  ugly." 

"  You  innocent  little  simpleton  ! 
She's  ugly  enough  to  frighten  the 
crows." 

How  long  the  colloquy  might  have 
continued  it  is  hard  to  say  ;  certainly 
Meta  would  not  be  the  one  to  give  in ; 
but  it  was  interrupted  by  Margery 
herself.  A  note  had  just  been  deliv- 
ered at  the  house  for  Mrs.  George  Go- 
dolphin,  and  Margery,  who  probably 
was  glad  of  the  excuse  for  entering, 
brought  it  in.  She  never  looked  at 
all  towards    Mrs.    Pain ;    she   came 


straight  up  to  her  mistress,  apparently 
ignoring  Charlotte's  presence,  but  you 
should  have  seen  the  expression  of 
her  face.  The  coronet  on  the  seal 
of  the  letter  imparted  a  suspicion  to 
Maria  that  it  came  from  Lord  Averil, 
and  her  heart  sunk  within  her.  Could 
he  be  withdrawing  his  promise  of 
clemency  ? 

"  Who  brought  this  ?"  she  asked,  in 
a  subdued  tone. 

"A  servant  on  horseback,  ma'am." 

Charlotte  had  started  up,  catching 
at  her  feathers,  for  Pierce  was  at  the 
dining-room  door  now,  saying  that 
the  horses  were  alarmingly  restive. 
"  Good-afternoon,  Mrs.  George  Godol- 
phin,"she  called  out,  unceremoniously, 
as  she  hastened  away.  "  I'll  come 
and  spend  a  quiet  hour  with  you  be- 
fore I  leave  for  town.  Adieu,  petite 
diablesse  !  I'd  have  you  up  to-mor- 
row for  a  farewell  visit,  but  that  I'm 
afraid  you  might  get  nailed  down  with 
the  furniture  in  some  of  the  packing- 
cases." 

Away  she  went.  Meta  was  hasten- 
ing after  her,  but  was  caught  up  by 
Margery  with  a  gasp  and  a  sob, — as  if 
she  had  been  saving  her  from  some  im- 
minent danger.  Maria  opened  the 
letter  with  trembling  fingers. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Godolphin  : — It 
has  occurred  to  me,  since  I  parted 
from  you,  that  you  may  wish  to  have 
the  subject  of  our  conversation  con- 
firmed in  writing.  I  hereby  assure 
you  that  I  shall  take  no  legal  proceed- 
ings whatever  against  your  husband 
on  account  of  my  lost  bonds,  and  you 
may  tell  him  from  me  that  he  need 
not,  on  that  score,  remain  away  from 
Prior's  Ash. 

"I  hope  you  have  reached  home 
without  too  much  fatigue. 

"Believe  me,  ever  sincerely  yours, 
"Averil." 

"  How  kind  he  is  !"  burst  involun- 
tarily from  Maria's  lips. 

The  words  were  drowned  in  a  noise 
outside.  Charlotte  had  contrived  to 
ascend  to  her  seat  in  spite  of  the 
dancing  horses.     She  stood  up  in  the 


346 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


high  carriage,  as  George  Godolphin 
had  once  done  at  that  same  door,  and 
by  dint  of  strength  and  skill  she  sub- 
dued them  to  control.  Turning  their 
fiery  heads,  scattering  the  assembled 
multitude  right  and  left,  nodding 
pleasantly  to  the  applause  vouchsafed 
her,  Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain  and  the  turn- 
out disappeared  with  a  clatter,  amidst 
the  rolling  of  wheels,  the  barking  of 
dogs,  and  the  intense  admiration  of  the 
gaping  populace. 


CHAPTER    LY. 

UNAVAILING   REGRETS. 

Miss  Godolphin  sat  at  one  of  the 
windows  facing  the  west  in  their  home 
at  Ashlydyat, — soon  to  be  their  home 
no  more.  Her  cheek  rested  pensively 
on  her  fingers,  as  she  thought — oh, 
with  what  bitterness  ! — of  the  griev- 
ous past.  '  She  had  been  universally 
ridiculed  for  paying  heed  to  the  super- 
stitious traditions  attaching  to  the 
house,  and  yet  how  strangely  they 
appeared  to  be  working  themselves 
out.  [t  had  begun — Janet  seemed  to 
think  the  ruin  had  begun — with  the 
departure  of  her  father,  Sir  George, 
from  Ashlydyat;  and  the  tradition 
went  that  when  the  head  of  the  Go- 
dolphins  should  voluntarily  abandon 
Ashlydyat,  the  ruin  would  follow. 

Had  Sir  George's  departure  brought 
on  the  ruin, — been  the  first  end  of  the 
thread  that  led  to  it?  Janet  was 
debating  the  question  in  her  mind. 
That  she  was  prone  to  indulge  in  su- 
perstitious fancies  to  a  degree  many 
would  pronounce  ridiculously  absurd, 
cannot  be  denied  :  but  in  striving  to 
solve  that  particular  problem  she  was 
relinquishing  the  by-paths  of  the  su- 
pernatural for  the  broad-road  of  com- 
mon sense.  From  the  facts  that  were 
being  brought  to  light  by  the  bank- 
ruptcy, turning  themselves  up  by  de- 
grees one  after  another,  it  was  easy  to 
see  that  George  Godolphin  had  been 
seduced   into  a  hornet's  nest,  and  so 


been  eased  of  his  money.  Whether 
the  process  had  been  summary  or  slow 
— whether  he  had  wTalked  into  it  head- 
foremost in  blind  simplicity — or 
whether  he  had  only  succumbed  to  it 
under  the  most  refined  Machiavellian 
craft,  brought  subtly  to  bear  upon  him, 
was  of  no  consequence  to  inquire.  It 
is  of  no  consequence  to  us.  He  had 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  company  of 
swindlers,  who  ensnared  their  victims 
and  transacted  their  business  under  the 
semblance  of  bill-discounting ;  and 
they  had  brought  George  to  what  h« 
was. 

Head  and  chief  of  this  apparently 
reputable  firm  was  Yerrall ;  and  Ver- 
rall,  there  was  not  a  doubt,  had  been 
the  chief  agent  in  George  Godolphin's 
undoing.  But  for  Sir  George  Godol- 
phin's quitting  Ashlydyat  and  putting 
it  up  in  the  market  to  let,  Yerrall 
might  never  have  come  near  Prior's 
Ash, — never  have  met  Mr.  George 
Godolphin.  In  that  case  the  chances 
were  that  Mr.  George  would  have 
been  a  flourishing  banker  yet.  Gay 
he  would  have  been  ;  needlessly  ex- 
travagant ;  scattering  his  wild  oats 
by  the  bushel, — but  not  a  man  come 
to  ruin  and  to  beggary. 

Janet  Godolphin  was  right :  it  was 
the  quitting  of  Ashlydyat  by  her 
father,  and  the  consequent  tenancy  of 
Mr.  Yerrall,  which  had  been  the  first 
link  in  the  chain,  terminating  in 
George's  disgrace,  in  their  ruin. 

She  sat  there,  losing  herself  in  re- 
gret after  regret.  "  If  my  father  had 
not  left  it ! — if  he  had  never  married 
Mrs.  Campbell  ! — if  my  own  dear 
mother  had  not  died  !" — she  lost  her- 
self, I  say,  in  these  regrets,  bitter  as 
they  were  vain. 

How  many  of  these  useless  regrets 
might  embitter  the  lives  of  us  all  ! 
How  many  do  embitter  them  !  If  I  had 
but  done  so-and-so ! — if  I  had  but 
taken  the  left  turning  when  I  took  the 
right ! — if  I  had  but  known  what  that 
man  was  from  the  first,  and  shunned 
his  acquaintance  ! — if  I  had  but  chosen 
that  path  in  life  instead  of  this  one  ! 
— if  I  had,  in  short,  but  done  the  pre- 
cisely  opposite   to    what   I   did   do ! 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


347 


Vain,  vain  repinings  ! — vain,  useless, 
profitless  repinings  !  The  only  plan 
is  to  keep  them  so  far  as  possible 
from  our  hearts.  If  we  could  foresee 
the  end  of  a  thing  at  its  beginning, — 
if  we  could  buy  a  stock  of  experience 
at  the  onset  of  life, — if  we  could,  in 
point  of  fact,  become  endowed  with 
the  light  of  divine  wisdom,  what  dif- 
ferent men  and  women  the  world 
would  see  ! 

But  we  cannot, — we  cannot  undo 
the  past.  It  is  ours  with  all  its  folly, 
its  short-sightedness,  perhaps  its  guilt. 
Though  we  stretch  out  our  yearning 
and  pitiful  hands  to  Heaven  in  their 
movement  of  agony, — though  we  wail 
aloud  our  bitter  cry,  Lord,  pardon  me, 
—  heal  me,  —  help  me!  —  though  we 
beat  on  our  remorseful  bosom  and 
tear  away  its  flesh  piecemeal  in  bitter 
repentance,  we  cannot  undo  the  past. 
We  cannot  undo  it.  The  past  remains 
to  us  unaltered, — apd  must  remian  so 
forever. 

Perhaps  some  idea  of  this  kind,  of 
the  utter  uselessness  of  these  regrets, 
— but  no  personal  remorse  attached  to 
her, — was  making  itself  heard  in  the 
mind  of  Miss  Godolphin,  even  through 
her  grief.  She  had  clasped  her  hands 
upon  her  bosom  now,  and  bent  her 
head  downwards,  completely  lost  in 
retrospect.  One  drop  in  the  Godol- 
phin's  full  cup  of  pain  had  been  re- 
moved from  it  that  day, — the  knowl- 
edge that  Viscount  Averil  did  not  in- 
tend to, institute  criminal  proceedings 
against  George.  When  Thomas  had 
returned  home  to  dinner  he  brought 
the  news. 

"  Did  you  say  Maria  walked  over 
to  Colonel  Max's  ?"  Janet  suddenly 
lifted  her  eyes  to  ask. 

It  was  to  Thomas  that  she  spoke. 
He  sat  opposite  to  her  at  the  other 
corner  of  the  window.  He,  too,  ap- 
peared to  be  buried  in  thought. 

"  Walked  ?     Yes,  she  walked." 

"  Imprudent !"  was  the  short  re- 
mark returned  by  Janet. 

"  She  said  it  had  not  tired  her.  I 
think,"  continued  Thomas,  "there  are 
times  when  the  mind  is  all  predomi- 
nant,— when  its  emotions,  whether  of 


sorrow  or  of  joy,  are  so  intense  that 
all  bodily  consciousness  is  lost,  and 
fatigue  is  not  felt.  It  was  no  doubt 
so  to-day  with  Maria." 

Janet  said  no  more.  She  rose  pres- 
ently to  leave  the  room,  and  almost 
immediately  afterwards  Bexley  ap- 
peared, showing  in  Lord  Averii. 

He  hastened  forward  to  prevent 
Thomas  Godolphin's  rising.  Laying 
one  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  the 
other  on  his  hands,  he  pressed  him 
down,  and  would  not  let  him  rise. 

"  How  am  I  to  thank  you  ?"  were 
the  first  words  spoken  by  Thomas, — 
in  reference  to  the  clemency  shown  to 
his  brother. 

"  Hush  I"  said  Lord  Averil.  "  My 
dear  friend,  you  are  allowing  these 
things  to  affect  you  more  than  they 
ought.  I  see  the  greatest  change  in 
you,  even  in  this  short  time." 

The  slanting  rays  of  the  declining 
sun  were  falling  on  the  face  of  Thomas 
Godolphin,  lighting  up  its  fading  vi- 
tality. The  cheeks  were  thinner,  the 
weak  hair  seemed  scantier,  the  truth- 
ful gray  eyes  had  acquired  an  habitual 
expression  of  pain.  Lord  Averil  leaned 
over  him  and  noted  it  all. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Thomas,  drawing 
the  chair  which  had  been  occupied  by 
Janet  nearer  to  him. 

Lord  Averil  accepted  the  invitation, 
but  did  not  release  the  hand.  "  I  un- 
derstand you  have  been  doubting  me," 
he  said.  "You  might  have  known 
me  better.  We  have  been  friends  a 
long  while." 

Thomas  Godolphin  only  answered 
by  a  pressure  of  the  hand  he  held. 
Old  and  familiar  friends  though  they 
were,  understanding  each  other's 
hearts  almost,  as  these  close  friends 
should  do,  it  was  yet  a  most  painful 
point  to  Thomas  Godolphin.  On  the 
one^side  there  was  his  brother's  crime : 
on  the  other  there  was  the  loss  of  that 
large  sum  to  Lord  Averil.  Thomas 
had  to  do  battle  with  pain  perpetually 
now  :  but  there  were  moments  when 
the  conflict  was  nearer  and  sharper 
than  at  others.     This  was  one. 

They  subsided  into  conversation, — 
its  theme,  as  was  natural,  the  bank- 


348 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


ruptcy  and  its  attendant  details.  Lord 
Averil  found  that  Thomas  was  cast- 
ing blame  to  himself. 

"  Why  should  you  ?"  he  asked,  im- 
pulsively. "  Is  it  not  enough  that  the 
world  should  do  so,  without  yourself 
indorsing  it  ?" 

A  faint  smile  crossed  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin's  face  at  the  thoughtless  ad- 
mission spoken  so  openly :  but  he 
knew,  none  better,  how  great  a  share 
of  blame  was  dealt  out  to  him.  "  Tt 
is  due,"  he  observed  to  Lord  Averil. 
"  I  ought  not  to  have  reposed  trust 
so  implicit  in  George.  Things  could 
not  have  come  to  this  pass  if  I  had 
not," 

"  If  we  cannot  place  implicit  trust 
in  a  brother  in  whom  oan  we  place 
it?" 

"  True.  But,  in  my  position  as  the 
trustee  of  others,  I  ought  not  to  have 
trusted  that  things  were  going  on 
right.  I  should  have  knoion  that  they 
were." 

They  went  on  to  the  future.  Thomas 
spoke  of  the  selling  up  of  all  things, 
of  their  turning  out  of  Ashlydyat. 
"  Is  that  decree  irrevocable  ?"  Lord 
Averil  interrupted.  "  Must  Ashly- 
dyat be  sold  ?" 

Thomas  was  surprised  at  the  ques- 
tion. It  was  so  superfluous  a  one. 
"  It  will  be  sold  very  shortly,"  he 
said,  "  to  the  highest  bidder.  Any 
stranger  who  bids  most  will  get  Ash- 
lydyat. I  hope,"  he  added,  with  a 
half  start,  as  if  the  possibility  occurred 
to  him  then  for  the  first  time,  "  that 
the  man  Verrall  will  not  become  a 
bidder  for  it, — and  get  it !  Lady  Go- 
dolphin  turns  him  from  the  Folly." 

"  Never  fear,"  said  Lord  Averil. 
"  He'll  be  only  too  glad  to  relieve 
Prior's  Ash  of  his  presence.  Thomas, 
can  nothing  be  done  to  the  man  ? 
Your  brother  may  have  been  a  willing 
tool  in  his  hands,  but  broad  whispers 
are  going  about  that  it  is  Verrall  who 
has  reaped  the  harvest.  Can  no  legal 
cognizance  be  taken  of  it?" 

Thomas  shook  his  head.  "We  may 
suspect  a  great  deal, — in  fact,  it  is 
more    than    suspicion ;    but   we    can 


prove  nothing.  The  man  will  rise  up 
triumphant  from  it  all  and  carry  his 
head  higher  than  ever.  I  hope,  I  say, 
that  he  will  not  think  of  Ashlydyat. 
They  were  in  it  once,  you  know." 

"Why  could  not  Ashlydyat  lie  dis- 
posed of  by  private  contract  ? — by 
valuation  ?  It  might  be,  if  the  as- 
signees chose." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  might  be." 

"  I  wish  you  would  sell  it  to  me," 
breathed  Lord  Averil. 

"  To  you  1"  repeated  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin.  "Ay,  indeed.  Were  you  to 
have  Ashlydyat,  I  should  the  less 
keenly  regret  its  passing  from  the  Go- 
dolphins." 

Lord  Averil  paused.  He  appeared 
to  want  to  say  something,  but  to  hesi- 
tate in  doubt, 

"  Would  it  please  you  that  one  of 
the  Godolphins  should  still  inhabit  it  ?" 
he  asked,  at  length. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  replied 
Thomas.  "  There  is  no  chance — I  had 
almost  said  possibility — of  a  Godol- 
phin  henceforward  inhabiting  Ashly- 
dyat," 

"  I  hope  and  trust  there  is,"  said 
Lord  Averil,  with  emotion.  "  If  Ash- 
lydyat is  ever  to  be  mine,  I  shall  not 
care  for  it  unless  a  Godolphin  shares 
it  with  me.  I  speak  of  your  sister, 
Cecilia," 

Thomas  sat  in  calmness,  waiting  for 
more.  Nothing  could  stir  him  greatly 
now.  Lord  Averil  gave  him  the  out- 
line of  the  past, — of  his  love  for  Ce- 
cilia, and  her  rejection  of  him. 

"  There  has  been  something,"  he 
continued,  "in  her  manner  of  late, 
which  has  renewed  hope  within  me — 
otherwise  I  should  not  be  saying  this 
to  you  now.  Quite  of  late — since  her 
rejection  of  me — I  have  observed  what 
— what 1  cannot  describe  it,  Thom- 
as," he  broke  off.  "  But  I  have  deter- 
mined to  risk  my  fate  once  more. 
And  you — you — loving  Cecil  as  I 
do — you  thought  I  could  prosecute 
George !" 

"  But  I  did  not  know  that  you  loved 
Cecil." 

"  I  suppose  not.     It  has  seemed  to 


THE     SHADOW     OF     ASHLYDYAT, 


349 


me,  though,  that  my  love  must  have 
been  patent  to  the  world.  You  would 
give  her  to  me,  would  you  not  ?" 

"Ay;  thankfully,"  was  the  warm 
answer.  "  The  thought  of  leaving 
Cecil  unprotected  has  been  one  of  my 
cares.  Janet  and  Bessy  are  older  and 
more  experienced.  Let  me  give  you 
one  consolation,  Averil :  that  if  Cecil 
has  rejected  you,  she  has  rejected 
others.  Janet  has  fancied  she  had 
some  secret  attachment.  Can  it  have 
been  to  yourself  ?" 

"If  so,  why  should  she  have  re- 
jected me  ?" 

"  In  truth  I  do  not  know.  Cecil 
has  seemed  grievously  unhappy  since 
these  troubles  arose, — almost  like  one 
who  has  no  further  hope  in  life. 
George's  peril  has  told  upon  her." 

"  His  peril  ?" 

"  From  you." 

Lord  Averil  bit  his  lips.  "  Cecil, 
above  all  others — unless  it  were  your- 
self— might  have  known  that  he  was 
safe." 

A  silence  ensued.  Lord  Averil  re- 
sumed :  "  There  is  one  upon  whom  I 
fear  these  troubles  are  telling  all  too 
greatly,  Thomas, — and  that  is  your 
brother's  wife." 

"  May  God  comfort  her  1"  was  the 
involuntary  answer  that  broke  from 
the  lips  of  Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  Had  I  been  ever  so  harshly  in- 
clined, I  think  the  sight  of  her  to-day 
would  have  disarmed  me.  No,  no  : 
had  I  never  owned  a  friendship  for 
you,  had  I  never  loved  Cecil,  there  is 
certainly  enough  of  evil,  of  cruel,  una- 
voidable evil,  which  must  fall  with 
thjs  calamity,  without  my  adding  to 
it." 

"  When  I  brought  word  home  this 
afternoon  that  you  were  well-disposed 
towards  George, — that  he  had  nothing 
to  fear  from  you, — Cecil  burst  into 
tears." 

A  glow  ai-ose  to  Lord  Averil's  face. 
He  looked  out  on  the  setting  sun  in 
silence.  "  Is  your  brother  sent  for  ?" 
he  presently  asked. 

"Maria  and  I  have  both  written 
for  him  now.  I  should  think  he  will 
come.     What  is  it,  Bexley  ?" 


"A  message  is  come  from  Mrs. 
Pain,  sir,  about  some  of  the  fixtures  at 
Lady  Godol plan's  Folly.  Mrs.  Pain 
wants  to  know  if  you  have  a  list  of 
them.  She  forgets  which  belong  to 
the  house,  and  which  don't." 

Thomas  Godolphin  said  a  word  of 
apology  to  Lord  Averil,  and  left  the 
room.  In  the  hall  he  met  Cecil  cross- 
ing to  it.  She  went  in,  quite  uncon- 
scious who  was  its  inmate.  He  rose 
up  to  welcome  her. 

A  momentary  hesitation  in  her 
steps,  a  doubt  whether  she  should  not 
run  away  again,  and  then  she  recalled 
her  senses  and  went  forward. 

She  recalled  what  he  had  done  that 
day  for  her  brother ;  she  went  forward 
to  thank  him.  But  ere  the  thanks  had 
well  begun,  they  came  to  a  summary 
end,  for  Cecil  had  burst  into  tears. 

How  it  went  on,  and  what  was  ex- 
actly said  or  done,  neither  of  them 
could  remember  afterwards.  A  very 
few  minutes,  and  Cecil's  head  was 
resting  upon  his  shoulder,  all  the  mis- 
takes of  the  past  cleared  up  between 
them. 

She  might  not  have  confessed  to 
him  how  long  she  had  loved, — all  since 
that  long  past  time  when  they  were 
together  at  Mrs.  Averil's, — but  for  her 
dread  lest  he  might  fear  that  she  was 
only  accepting  him  now  out  of  grati- 
tude,— gratitude  for  his  noble  be- 
haviour to  her  erring  brother.  And 
so  she  told  the  truth  :  that  she  had 
loved  him,  and  only  him,  all  along. 

"  Cecil,  my  darling,  what  a  long 
misery  might  have  been  spared  me 
had  I  known  this  !" 

Cecil  looked  down.  Perhaps  some 
might  also  have  been  spared  to  her. 
"  It  is  not  right  that  you  should  marry 
me  now,"  she  said. 

"Why?" 

"  On  account  of  this  dreadful  dis- 
grace. George  must  have  forgotten 
how  it  would  fall  upon " 

"  Hush,  Cecil !  The  disgrace,  as  I 
look  upon  it, — as  I  believe  all  just 
people  must  look  upon  it, — is  confined 
to  himself.  It  is,  my  darling.  Not 
an  iota  of  the  respect  due  to  Thomas 
by  the  world,  of  the  consideration  due 


350 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


to  the  Miss  Godolphins,  will  be  abated. 
Rely  upon  it,  I  am  right." 

"But  Thomas  is  being  reflected 
upon  daily, — personally  abused." 

"  By  a  few  inconsiderate  creditors, 
smarting  just  now  under  their  loss. 
That  will  all  pass  away.  If  you  could 
read  my  heart  and  see  how  happy  you 
have  made  me,  you  would  know  how 
little  cause  you  have  to  talk  of  the 
'  disgrace,'  Cecil." 

.  She  was  happy  also,  as  she  rested 
there  against  him, — too  happy. 

"  Would  you  like  to  live  at  Ash- 
lydyat,  Cecil  ?  Thomas  would  rather 
we  had  it  than  that  it  should  lapse 
to  strangers.   I  should  wish  to  buy  it." 

"  Oh,  yes — if  it  could  be." 

"  I  dare  say  it  can.  Of  coui'se  it  can. 
Ashlydyat  must  be  sold,  and  I  shall 
be  as  welcome  a  purchaser  as  any 
other  would  be.  If  it  must  be  put  up 
to  auction,  I  can  be  the  highest  bid- 
der, but  I  dare  say  they  will  be  glad 
to  save  the  expense  of  an  auction,  and 
let  me  purchase  it  by  private  contract. 
I  might  purchase  the  furniture  also, 
Cecil ;  all  the  old  relics,  that  Sir 
George  set  so  much  store  by, — that 
Janet  does  still." 

"  If  it  could  be  !"  she  murmured. 

"Indeed  I  think  it  may  be.  They 
will  be  glad  to  set  a  price  upon  it  as 
it  stands  :  look  at  the  cost  it  will  save. 
And,  Cecil,  we  will  drive  away  all  the 
ghostly  superstitions,  and  that  ominous 
Shadow " 

Cecil  lifted  her  face,  an  eager  light 
upon  it.  "  Janet  says  that  the  curse 
has  been  worked  out  with  the  ruin  of 
the  Godolphins  :  she  thinks  that  the 
dark  Shadow  will  never  come  any 
more." 

"  So  much  the  better.  We  will 
have  the  Dark  Plain  dug  up  and  made 
into  a  children's  playground,  and  a 
summer-house  for  them  shall  be  erected 
on  the  very  spot  which  the  Shadow 
has  made  its  own.  There  may  be 
children  here  some  time,  Cecil." 

Cecil's  eyelashes  were  bent  on  her 
hot  cheeks.     She  did  not  raise  them. 

"If  you  liked — if  you  liked,  Cecil, 


we  might  ask  Janet  and  Bessy  to 
retain  their  home,"  resumed  Lord 
Averil,  in  his  thoughtful  consideration. 
"Ashlydyat  is  large  enough." 

"  Their  home  is  decided  upon,"  said 
Cecil,  shaking  her  head.  "  Bessy  has 
promised  to  make  hers  at  Lady  Go- 
dolphin's  Folly.  Lady  Godolphin 
exacted  her  promise  to  that  effect,  be- 
fore she  decided  to  return  to  it.  I 
was  to  have  gone  also.  Janet  goes 
to  Scotland.  I  am  quite  sure  that 
this  place  has  become  too  painful  for 
Janet  to  remain  in.  She  has  an  an- 
nuity, as  perhaps  you  know  ;  it  was 
money  left  her  by  mamma's  sister  ;  so 
that  she  is  independent,  and  can  live 
where  she  pleases.  But  I  am  sure 
she  will  go  to  Scotland,  as  soon  as, — 
as.  soon  as " 

"  I  understand  you,  Cecil.  As 
soon  as  Thomas  shall  have  passed 
away. " 

The  tears  were  glistening  in  her 
eyes.  "  Do  you  not  see  a  great  change 
in  him  ?" 

"  A  very  great  one.  Cecil,  I  should 
like  him  to  give  you  to  me.  Will 
you  waive  ceremony,  and  be  mine  at 
once  ?" 

"  At  once  ?"  she  repeated,  stammer- 
ing and  looking  at  him. 

"  I  mean  in  the  course  of  a  week  or 
two  :  as  soon  as  you  can  make  it  con- 
venient. Surely  we  have  waited  long 
enough  !" 

"I  will  see,"  murmured  Cecil. 
"  When  a  little  of  this  bustle,  this  dis- 
grace, shall  have  passed  away.  Let 
it  die  out  first." 

A  grave  expression  arose  to  Lord 
Averil 's  face.  "  It  must  not  be  very 
long  first,  Cecil :  if  you  would  be  mine 
while  your  brother  is  in  life." 

"  I  will,  I  will ;  it  shall  be  as  you 
wish,"  she  answered,  the  tears  falling 
from  her  eyes.  And  before  Lord 
Averil  could  make  any  rejoinder,  she 
had  hastily  quitted  him,  and  was 
standing  against  the  window,  stealthily 
drying  her  wet  cheeks  :  for  the  door 
had  opened  to  give  entrance  to  Thomas 
Godolphin, 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


351 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

MY  LADY  WASHES  HER  HANDS. 

The  summer  was  drawing  towards 
its  close  ;  and  so  was  the  bankruptcy 
of  Godolphin,  Crosse  and  Godolphin. 
If  we  adhere  to  the  style  of  the  old 
firm,  we  only  do  as  Prior's  Ash  did. 
Mr.  Crosse,  you  have  heard,  was  out 
of  it  actually  and  officially,  but  people, 
in  speaking  or  writing  of  the  firm, 
forgot  to  leave  out  his  name.  One  or 
two  maddened  sufferers  raised  a  ques- 
tion of  his  liability  in  their  hopeless 
desperation  ;  but  they  gained  nothing 
by  the  motion  :  Mr.  Crosse  was  as 
legally  separated  from  the  Godolphins 
as  if  he  had  never  been  connected 
with  them.  The  labor,  the  confusion, 
and  the  doubt,  attendant  upon  most 
bankruptcies,  was  nearly  over,  and 
creditors  knew  the  best  and  the  worst. 
The  dividends  would  be,  to  use  a 
common  expression,  shamefully  small, 
when  all  was  told  :  they  might  have 
been  even  smaller  (not  much,  though) 
but  that  Lord  Averil's  claim  on  the 
sixteen  thousand  pounds,  the  value  of 
the  bonds,  was  not  allowed  to  enter 
into  it.  Those  bonds  and  all  con- 
nected with  them  were  sunk  in  si- 
lence so  complete  that  at  length  some 
outsiders  began  to  ask  whether  they 
and  their  reported  loss  had  not  been 
a- myth  altogether. 

Thomas  Godolphin  had  given  up 
every  thing,  even  to  the  watch  in  his 
pocket,  the  signet-ring  upon  his  finger. 
The  latter  was  returned  to  him.  The 
jewelry  of  the  Miss  Godolphins  was 
given  up.  Maria's  jewelry  was  given 
up.  In  short,  there  was  nothing  that 
was  not  given  up.  The  fortune  of 
the  Miss  Godolphins,  consisting  of 
money  and  bank  shares,  was  of  course 
gone  with  the  rest.  The  money  had 
been  in  the  bank  at  interest ;  the 
shares  were  now  worthless.  Janet 
alone  had  an  annuity  of  about  a  hun- 
dred a  year,  which  nothing  could  de- 
prive her  of:  the  rest  of  the  Godol- 
phins were  reduced  to  beggary.  Worse 
off  were  they  than  any  of  their  clam- 
orous creditors ;    since    for  them  all 


had  gone, — houses,  lands,  money,  fur- 
niture, personal  belongings.  But  that 
Thomas  Godolphin  would  not  long  be 
in  a  land  where  these  things  are  re- 
quired, it  might  have  been  a  question 
how  he  was  for  the  future  to  get 
sufficient  of  them  to  live. 

The  arrangement  hinted  at  by  Lord 
Averil  had  been  carried  out,  and  that 
nobleman  was  now  the  owner  of 
Ashlydyat,  and  all  that  it  contained. 
It  may  have  been  a  little  departing 
from  the  usual  order  of  the  law  in 
such  cases,  to  dispose  of  it  by  private 
arrangement ;  but  it  had  been  done 
with  the  full  consent  of  all  parties 
concerned.  Even  the  creditors,  who 
of  course  showed  themselves  ready 
to  cavil  at  every  thing,  were  glad 
that  the  cost  of  a  public  sale  by  auc- 
tion should  be  avoided.  A  price  had 
been  put  upon  Ashlydyat,  and  Lord 
Averil  gave  it  Avithout  a  dissentient 
word  ;  and  the  purchase  of  the  fur- 
niture, as  it  stood,  was  undoubtedly 
advantageous  to  the  sellers. 

Yes,  Ashlydyat  had  gone  from  the 
Godolphins.  Put  Thomas  and  his 
sisters  remained  in  it.  There  had 
been  no  battle  with  Thomas  on  the 
score  of  his  remaining.  Lord  Averil 
had  clasped  his  friend's  hands  within 
his  own,  and  in  a  word  or  two  of 
emotion  had  given  him  to  understand 
that  his  chief  satisfaction  in  its  pur- 
chase had  been  the  thought  that  he, 
Thomas,    would   remain   in   his   own 

home,  as  long, — as  long •     Thomas 

Godolphin  understood  the  broken 
words, — as  long  as  he  had  need  of  one. 
"  Nothing  would  induce  me  to  enter 
upon  my  habitation  in  it  until  then," 
continued  Lord  Averil.  "  So  be  it," 
said  Thomas,  quietly,  for  he  fully  com- 
prehended the  feeling,  and  the  grati- 
fication it  brought  to  the  conferrer  of 
the  obligation.  "  I  shall  not  keep  you 
out  of  it  long,  Averil."  The  same 
words,  almost  the  same  words  that 
Sir  George  Godolphin  had  once 
spoken  to  his  son:  "I  shall  not 
keep  you  and  Ethel  long  out  of  Ash- 
lydyat." 

So  Thomas  remained  at  Ashlydyat 
with  his  broken  health,  and  the  weeks 


352 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


had  gone  on ;  and  the  summer  was 
now  drawing  to  an  end,  and  more 
things  beside  it.  Thomas  Godolphin 
was  beginning  to  be  better  understood 
than  he  had  been  at  the  time  of  the 
crash,  and  people  were  repenting  of 
the  cruel  blame  they  had  so  freely- 
hurled  upon  him.  The  early  smart 
of  the  blow  had  faded  away,  and  with 
it  the  prejudice  which  had  unjustly, 
though  not  unnaturally,  distorted  their 

i'udgment,  and  buried  for  the  time  all 
indly  impulse.  Perhaps  there  was 
not  a  single  creditor,  whatever  might 
be  the  extent  of  the  damage  he  had 
suffered  by  the  bank,  but  would  have 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  given  more 
gold,  if  by  that  means  he  could  have 
saved  the  life  of  Thomas  Godolphin. 
They  learnt  to  remember  that  the 
fault  had  not  lain  with  him  ;  they  be- 
lieved that  if  by  the  sacrifice  of  his 
own  life  he  could  have  averted  the 
calamity  he  would  have  cheerfully 
sacrificed  it :  they  knew  that  his  days 
were  as  one  long  mourning,  for  them, 
individually, — and  they  took  shame 
to  themselves  for  having  been  so  bit- 
ter against  him,  Thomas  Godolphin. 

Not  so  in  regard  to  George.  He 
did  not  regain  his  place  in  their 
estimation  :  and  if  they  could  have 
hoisted  Mr.  George  on  a  pole  in  front 
of  the  bank  and  cast  at  him  a  few 
rotten  eggs  and  other  agreeable  mis- 
siles, it  had  been  a  comforting  relief  to 
their  spleen.  Had  George  been  con- 
demned to  stand  at  the  bar  of  a  public 
tribunal  by  the  nobleman  he  had  so 
defrauded,  half  Prior's  Ash  would 
have  gone  to  recreate  their  feelings  by 
staring  at  him  during  the  trial,  and 
made  it  into  a  day  of  jubilee.  Harsh 
epithets,  exceedingly  unpleasant  when 
taken  personally,  were  freely  lavished 
on  him,  and  would  be  for  a  long  while 
to  come.  He  had  wronged  them : 
and  time  alone  will  suffice  to  wash 
the  ever-present  remembrance  of  such 
wrongs  out. 

He  had  been  at  Prior's  Ash.  Gay 
George  still.  So  far  as  could  be  seen, 
the  calamity  had  not  much  affected 
him.  Not  a  line  showed  itself  on  his 
fair,  smooth  brow,  not  a  shade  less  of 


color  on  his  bright  cheek,  not  a  gray 
thread  in  his  luxuriant  hair,  not  a 
cloud  in  his  dark  blue  eye.  Hand- 
some, fascinating,  attractive  as  ever 
was  George  Godolphin  :  and  he  really 
seemed  to  be  as  gay  and  light  of  tem- 
perament. When  any  ill-used  creditor 
attacked  him  outright, — as  some  did, 
through  a  casual  meeting  in  the  street, 
or  other  lucky  chance, — George  was 
triumphant  George  still.  Not  a  bit 
of  shame  did  he  seem  to  take  to  him- 
self,— but  so  sunny,  so  fascinating 
was  he,  as  he  held  the  hands  of  the 
half-reluctant  grumbler,  and  protested 
it  should  all  come  right  sometime, 
that  the  enemy  was  won  over  to  con- 
ciliation for  the  passing  moment.  It 
was  impossible  to  help  admiring 
George  Godolphin  ;  it  was  impossible, 
when  brought  face  to  face  with  him, 
not  to  be  taken  with  his  frank  plausi- 
bility :  the  crustiest  sufferer  of  them 
all  was  in  a  degree  subdued  by  it. 
Prior's  Ash  understood  that  the  officers 
of  the  bankruptcy  "  badgered"  George 
a  great  deal  when  under  his  examina- 
tions, but  George  only  seemed  to 
come  out  of  it  the  more  triumphant. 
Safe  on  the  score  of  Lord  Averil,  all 
the  rest  was  in  comparison  light ;  and 
easy  George  never  lost  his  good  humor 
or  his  self-possession.  He  appeared 
to  come  scot-free  out  of  every  thing. 
Those  falsified  accounts  in  the  bank 
books,  that  many  another  might  have 
been  held  responsible  and  punished 
for,  he  emerged  from  harmless.  It 
was  conjectured  that  the  full  extent 
of  these  false  entries  never  was  dis- 
covered by  the  commissioners :  Thomas 
Godolphin  and  Mr.  Hurde  alone  could 
have  told  it :  and  Thomas  preferred 
to  let  the  odium  of  loosely-kept  books, 
of  reckless  expenditure  of  money,  fall 
upon  himself,  rather  than  betray 
George.  Were  the  whole  thing  laid 
bare  and  declared,  it  could  not  bring 
a  single  fraction  of  benefit  to  the 
creditors,  so,  in  that  point  of  view,  it 
was  as  well  to  let  it  rest.  Are  these 
careless,  sanguine,  gay-tempered  men 
always  lucky  ?  It  has  been  so  as- 
serted ;  and  I  do  think  there's  a  great 
deal  of  truth  in  it.     Most  unequivo- 


THE      S  n  A  D  0  W      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


353 


cally  lucky  in  this  instance  was  George 
Godolphin. 

It  was  of  no  earthly  use  asking  him 
whore  all  the  money  had  gone, — to 
what  use  this  sum  had  been  put,  to 
what  use  the  other, — George  could 
not  tell.  He  could  not  tell  any  more 
than  they  could  ;  he  was  as  much  per- 
plexed over  it  as  they  were.  He  ran 
his  white  hand  unconsciously  through 
his  shining  golden  hair,  hopelessly 
trying  his  best  to  account  for  a  great 
many  items  that  nobody  living  could 
have  accounted  for.  All  in  vain.  Heed- 
less, off-handed  George  Godolphin  ! 
He  appeared  before  those  inquisitive 
officials  somewhat  gayer  in  attire  than 
was  needful.  A  sober  suit,  rather  of 
the  seedy  order,  than  bran  new,  might 
be  deemed  appropriate  at  such  a  time  ; 
but  George  Godolphin  gave  no  in- 
dication of  consulting  any  such  rules 
of  propriety.  George  Godolphin's  re- 
fined good  taste  had  kept  him  from 
falling  into  the  loose  and  easy  style 
of  dress  which  some  men  so  strangely 
favor  in  the  present  day,  putting  a 
gentleman  in  outward  aspect  on  a 
level  with  the  roughs  of  society. 
George,  though  no  coxcomb,  had  been 
addicted  to  dress  well  and  expensive- 
ly ;  and  George  appeared  inclined  to 
do  the  same  thing  still.  They  could 
not  take  him  to  task  on  the  score  of 
his  fine  broadcloth,  or  of  his  neatly- 
finished  boot ;  but  they  did  bend  their 
eyes  meaningly  on  the  massive  gold 
chain  which  crossed  his  white  waist- 
coat ;  on  the  costly  appendages  which 
dangled  from  it ;  on  the  handsome 
£o!d  repeater  which  he  more  than 
once  took  out,  as  if  weary  of  the  passing 
h^urs.  Mr.  George  received  a  gentle 
hint  that  those  articles,  however  or- 
namental to  himself,  must  be  con- 
fiscated to  the  bankruptcy ;  and  he 
resigned  them  with  a  good  grace. 
The  news  of  this  little  incident  trav- 
eled abroad,  as  an  interesting  anecdote 
connected  with  the  proceedings,  and 
the  next  time  George  saw  Charlotte 
Fain,  she  told  him  he  was  a  fool  to 
walk  into  the  camp  of  the  Philistines 
with  pretty  things  about  him.  But 
George  was  not  willfullv  dishonest  (if 
22 


you  can  by  any  possibility  understand 
that  assertion,  after  what  you  know 
of  his  past  doings),  and  he  replied  to 
Charlotte  that  it  was  only  right  the 
creditors  should  make  spoil  of  his 
watch  and  any  thing  else  he  possessed. 
The  truth,  were  it  defined,  being,  that 
George  was  only  dishonest  when 
driven  so  to  be.  He  had  made  free 
with  the  bonds  of  Lord  Averil,  but  he 
could  not  be  guilty  of  the  meanness  of 
hiding  his  personal  trinkets. 

Three  or  four  times  now  had 
George  been  at  Prior's  Ash.  People 
wondered  why  he  did  not  remain, — 
what  it  was  that  took  him  again  and 
again  to  London.  The  very  instant- 
he  found  that  he  could  be  dispensed 
with  at  Prior's  Ash,  away  he  flew : 
not  to  return  to  it  again  until  im- 
peratively demanded.  The  plain  fact 
was  that  Mr.  George  did  not  like  to 
face  Prior's  Ash.  For  all  the  easy 
self-possession,  the  gay  good  humor 
he  displayed  to  its  inhabitants,  the 
place  had  become  utterly  distasteful 
to  him,  almost  unbearable  ;  he  shun- 
ned it  and  hated  it  as  a  pious  Roman 
Catholic  hates  and  shuns  purgatory. 
For  that  reason,  and  for  no  other. 
George  did  his  best  to  escape  from  it. 

He  had  seen  Lord  Averil.  And 
his  fair  face  had  betrayed  its  shame 
as  he  said  a  few  words  of  apology 
for  what  he  had  done — of  thanks  for 
the  clemency  shown  him — of  promises 
for  the  future.  "  If  I  live,  I'll  make 
it  good  to  you,"  he  murmured.  "  I 
did  not  think  to  steal  them,  Averil  : 
I  did  not,  on  my  solemn  word  of 
honor.  I  thought  I  should  have  re- 
placed them  before  any  thing  could 
be  known.  Your  asking  for  them 
immediately — that  you  should  do  so 
seemed  like  a  fatality — upset  every 
thing.  But  for  that  I  might  have 
weathered  it  all,  and  the  house  would 
not  have  gone.  It  was  no  light  pres- 
sure that  forced  me  to  touch  them. 
Heaven  alone  knows  the  need  and  the 
temptation." 

And  the  meeting  between  the 
brothers  ?  No  eye  saw  it ;  no  ear 
heard  it.  Good  Thomas  Godolphin 
was  dying  from  the  blow,  dying  be- 


354 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


fore  his  time ;  but  not  a  word  of 
harsh  reproach  was  thrown  to  George. 
How  George  defended  himself — or 
whether  he  attempted  to  defend  him- 
self, or  whether  he  let  it  wholly  alone 
— the  public  never  knew. 

Lady  Godolphin's  Folly  was  no 
longer  in  the  occupancy  of  the  Ver- 
ralls  or  of  Mrs.  Pain  :  Lady  Godol- 
phin  had  returned  to  it.  Not  a  day 
aged  ;  not  a  day  altered.  Time  flit- 
ted most  lightly  over  Lady  Godol- 
phin.  Her  bloom-tinted  complexion 
was  delicately  fresh  as  ever  ;  her  dress 
was  as  becoming,  her  flaxen  locks 
were  as  youthful.  She  came  with 
her  servants  and  her  carriages,  and 
she  took  up  her  abode  at  the  Folly, 
in  all  the  splendor  of  the  old  days. 
Her  income  was  large,  and  the  mis- 
fortunes which  had  recently  fallen  on 
the  family  did  not  affect  it.  Lady 
Godolphin  washed  her  hands  of  these 
misfortunes.  She  washed  her  hands 
of  George.  She  told  the  world  that 
she  did  so.  She  spoke  of  them  openly 
to  the  public  in  general,  to  her  ac- 
quaintance in  particular  in  a  slight- 
ing, contemptuous  sort  of  manner,  as 
we  are  all  apt  to  speak  of  the  ill- 
doings  of  other  people.  They  don't 
concern  us,  and  it's  rather  a  condescen- 
sion on  our  part  to  blame  them  at  all. 
This  was  no  concern  of  Lady  Godol- 
phin's. She  told  everybody  it  was 
not.  George's  disgrace  did  not  reflect 
itself  upon  the  family,  and  of  him 
she — washed  her  hands.  No  :  Lady 
Godolphin  could  not  see  that  this 
break-up  caused  by  George  should  be 
any  reason  whatever  why  she  or  the 
Miss  Godolphins  should  hide  their 
heads  and  go  mourning  in  sackcloth 
and  ashes.  Many  of  her  old  acquaint- 
ances in  the  county  agreed  with  Lady 
Godolphin  in  her  view  of  things,  and 
helped  by  their  visits  to  make  the 
Folly  gay  again. 

To  wash  her  hands  of  Mr.  George 
was,  equitably  speaking,  no  more  than 
gentleman  deserved ;  but  Lady  Go- 
dolphin also  washed  her  hands  of 
Maria.  On  her  return  to  Prior's 
Ash  she  had  felt  inclined  to  espouse 


Maria's  part,— to  sympathize  with  and 
pity  her  ;  and  she  drove  down  in  state 
one  day  and  left  her  carriage  with  it« 
powdered  coachman  and  footman  to 
pace  to  and  fro  before  the  bank  while 
she  went  in.  She  openly  avowed  to 
Maria  that  she  considered  herself  in 
a  remote  degree  the  cause  which  had 
led  to  her  union  with  George  Godol- 
phin :  she  supposed  that  it  was  her 
having  had  Maria  so  much  at  the 
Folly,  and  afterwards  on  the  visit  at 
Broomhead,  which  had  led  to  the 
attachment.  As  a  matter  of  course 
she  had  regretted  this,  and  wished 
there  had  been  no  marriage,  now  that 
George  had  turned  out  so  gracelessly. 
If  she  could  do  any  thing  to  repair  it 
she  would  :  and,  as  a  first  step,  she 
offered  the  Folly  as  a  present  asylum 
to  Maria.  She  would  be  safe  there 
from  worry,  and — from  George. 

Maria  scarcely  at  first  understood. 
And  when  she  did,  her  only  answer 
was  to  thank  Lady  Godolphin,  and 
to  stand  out,  in  her  quiet,  gentle  man- 
ner, but  untiringly  and  firmly,  for  her 
husband.  Not  a  shade  of  blame 
would  she  acknowledge  to  be  due  to 
him ;  not  a  reverence  would  she  render 
him  the  less.  Her  place  was  with  him 
she  said,  though  the  world  turned 
against  him.  It  vexed  Lady  Godol- 
phin. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  asked,  "that 
you  must  choose  between  your  hus- 
band and  the  world  ?" 

"  In  what  way  ?"  replied  Maria. 

"  In  what  way !  When  a  man  acts 
in  the  manner  that  George  Godolphin 
has  acted,  he  puts  a  barrier  between 
himself  and  society.  But  there's  no 
necessity  for  the  barrier  to  extend  to 
you,  Maria.  If  you  will  come  to  my 
house  for  a  while,  you  will  find  this 
to  be  the  case, — that  it  will  not  ex- 
tend to  you." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Lady  Godol- 
phin. My  husband  is  more  to  me 
than  the  world." 

"  Bo  you  approve  of  what  he  has 
done  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Maria.  "  But  it  is 
not  my  place  to  show  that  1  blame." 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASIILYDYAT. 


355 


"  I  think  it  is,"  said  Lady  Godol- 
phin,  in  the  hard  tone  she  used  when 
her  opinion  was  crossed. 

Maria  was  silent.  She  never  could 
contend  with  any  one. 

"  Then  you  prefer  to  hold  out 
against  the  world,"  resumed  Lady 
Godolphin  ;  "  to  put  yourself  beyond 
its  pale  !     It  is  a  bold  step,  Maria." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?"  was  Maria's 
pleading  answer.  "  If  the  world 
throws  me  over  because  I  will  not 
turn  against  my  husband,  I  cannot 
help  it.  I  married  him  for  better  and 
for  worse,  Lady  Godolphin." 

"  The  fact  is,  Maria,"  retorted  my 
lady,  sharply,  "  that  you  have  loved 
George  Godolphin  in  a  ridiculous  de- 
gree. " 

"  Perhaps  I  have,"  was  Maria's  sub- 
dued answer,  the  color  dyeing  her  face 
with  various  reminiscences.  "  But 
surely  there  was  no  sin  in  it,  Lady 
Godolphin  :  he  is  my  husband." 

*'  And  you  cling  to  him  still  ?" 

"Oh  yes." 

Lady  Godolphin  rose.  She  shrugged 
her  shoulders  as  she  drew  her  white- 
lace  shawl  over  them,  she  glanced  at 
her  coquettish  blue  bonnet  in  the  pier- 
glass  as  she  passed  it,  at  her  blush-rose 
cheeks.  "  You  have  chosen  your  hus- 
band, Maria,  in  preference  to  me, — in 
preference  to  the  world ;  and  from  this 
moment  I  wash  my  hands  of  you,  as  I 
have  already  done  of  him." 

It  was  all  the  farewell  she  took :  and 
she  went  out  to  her  carriage  thinking 
what  a  blind,  obstinate,  hardened  wo- 
man was  Maria  Godolphin.  She  saw 
not  what  it  had  cost  that  "  hardened" 
woman  to  bear  up  before  her  ;  that  her 
heart  was  nigh  unto  breaking  ;  that  the 
sorrow  laid  upon  her  was  greater  than 
she  well  knew  how  to  battle  with. 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

A  BROKEN   IDOL. 

George  Godolphin  leaned  against 
a  pillar  of  the  terrace  open'ng  from 


the  dining-room.  They  had  not  left 
the  bank  yet  as  a  residence*,  but  this 
was  their  last  day  in  it.  It  was  the 
last  day  they  could  stop  in  it,  and 
why  they  should  have  lingered  in  it 
so  long  was  food  for  gossip  in  Prior's 
Ash.  On  the  morrow  the  house  would 
be,  as  may  be  said,  public  property. 
Men  would  walk  in  and  ticket  all  the 
things,  apportioning  them  their  place- 
in  the  catalogue,  their  order  in  the 
days  of  sale,  and  the  public  would 
crowd  in  also,  to  feast  their  eyes  upon 
the  household  gods  hitherto  sacred  to 
George  Godolphin. 

How  did  he  feel  as  he  stood  there  ? 
Was  his  spirit  in  heaviness,  as  was 
the  case  under  similar  misfortune  of 
another  man, — if  the  written  record 
he  left  to  us  may  be  trusted, — that 
great  and  noble  poet,  ill-fated  in  death 
as  in  life,  whose  transcendent  genius 
has  since  found  no  parallel. 

It  was  a  trying  moment,  that  which  found  him, 
Standing  alone  beside  his  desolate  hearth, 
AVhile  all  his  household  gods  lay  shivered  round 
him. 

Did  George  Godolphin  find  it  try- 
ing ?  Was  his  hearth  desolate  ?  Not 
desolate  in  the  full  sense  that  that 
other  spoke,  for  George  Godolphin's 
wife  was  with  him  still. 

She  had  stood  by  him.  When  he 
first  returned  to  Prior's  Ash,  she  had 
greeted  him  with  her  kind  smile,  with 
words  of  welcome.  Whatever  effect 
that  unpleasant  scandal,  mentioned 
by  Margery,  which  it  seems  had 
formed  a  staple  dish  for  Prior's  Ash, 
may  have  been  taking  upon  her  in 
secret  and  silence,  she  had  given  no 
sign  of  it  to  George.  He  never  sus- 
pected that  any  such  whisper,  touch- 
ing his  worthy  self,  had  been  breathed 
to  her.  Mr.  George  best  knew  what 
grounds  there  might  be  for  it :  whether 
it  bore  any  foundation,  or  whether  it 
was  but  one  of  those  breezy  rumors, 
false  as  the  wind,  which  have  their 
rise  in  ill-nature,  and  in  that  alone  : 
but  however  it  may  have  been, whether 
true  or  false,  he  could  not  divine  that 
such  poison  would  be  dropped  into  his 
wife's  ear.  If  he  had  thought  her 
greeting  to  him  strange,  her  manner 


356 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


more  utterly  subdued  than  there  was 
need  for,  her  grief  of  greater  violence, 
he  attributed  it  all  to  the  recent  mis- 
fortunes :  and  Maria  made  no  other 
sign. 

The  effects  had  been  bought  in  at 
Ashlydyat,  but  these  had  not :  and 
this  was  the  last  day,  almost  the  last 
hour  of  his  occupancy  of  them.  One 
would  think  his  eyes  would  be  cast 
around  in  lingering  looks  of  regretful 
farewell — upon  the  chairs  and  tables, 
on  the  scattered  ornaments,  down  to 
the  rich  carpets,  up  to  the  valuable 
and  familiar  pictures.  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
George's  eyes  were  bent  on  his  nails 
which  he  was  trimming  to  his  satis- 
faction, and  he  was  carolling  in  an 
undertone  a  strain  of  a  new  English 
opera. 

They  were  to  go  out  that  evening. 
At  dusk.  At  dusk  you  may  be  sure. 
They  were  to  go  forth  from  their  lux- 
urious home,  and  enter  upon  obscure 
lodgings,  and  go  altogether  down  in 
the  scale  of  what  the  world  calls  so- 
ciety. Not  that  the  lodgings  were  so 
obscure,  taking  them  in  the  abstract ; 
obscure  indeed,  as  compared  with 
their  home  at  the  bank,  very  obscure 
beside  the  home  they  had  sometime 
thought  to  remove  to — Ashlydyat. 

George  could  not  be  prudent :  he 
could  not,  had  his  life  depended  on  it, 
been  saving.  When  the  time  approach- 
ed that  they  might  no  longer  stay  in 
the  bank,  and  Maria,  in  writing  to  him 
in  London,  reminded  him  of  that  fact, 
and  asked  where  they  were  to  go  and 
what  they  were  to  do,  George  had  re- 
turned for  answer  that  there  was  no 
hurry,  she  might  leave  it  all  to  him. 
But  the  next  day  brought  him  down  ; 
and  he  went  out,  off-hand,  and  en- 
gaged some  fashionable  rooms  at  three 
guineas  a  week.  Maria  was  dismayed 
when  she  heard  the  price.  How  was 
it  to  be  paid  ?  George  did  not  see 
precisely  how,  himself,  just  at  present : 
but,  to  his  sanguine  disposition,  the 
paying  of  ten  guineas  a  week  for  lodg- 
ings would  have  looked  quite  easy. 
Maria  had  more  forethought,  and  pre- 
vailed. The  three-guinea-a- week  rooms 
were  given  up,  and  some  taken  at  half 


the  rent.  She  would  have  wished  a 
lower  rent  still ;  but  George  laughed 
at  her. 

He  stood  there  in  his  careless  beau- 
ty, his  bright  face  bent  downwards, 
his  tall,  fine  form,  noble  in  its  calmness. 
The  sun  was  playing  with  his  hair, 
bringing  out  its  golden  tints,  and  a 
smile  illumined  his  face,  as  he  went 
on  with  his  song.  Whatever  may 
have  been  George  Godolphin's  short- 
comings in  some  points  of  view,  none 
could  reproach  him  on  the  score  of  his 
personal  attractions.  All  the  old 
terror,  the  carkmg  care,  had  gone  out 
of  him  with  the  easy  bankruptcy, — 
easy  in  its  results  to  him,  compared 
to  what  might  have  been, — and  gay 
George,  graceless  George,  was  him- 
self again.  There  may  have  been 
something  deficient  in  his  moral  orga- 
nization, for  he  really  appeared  to 
take  no  shame  to  himself  for  what  had 
occurred.  He  stood  there  calmly 
self-possessed  ;  the  perfect  gentleman, 
so  far  as  looks  and  manners  could  make 
him  one ;  looking  as  fit  to  bend  his 
knee  at  the  proud  court  of  St.  James's, 
as  ever  that  stately  gentleman  his  fa- 
ther had  done,  when  her  Majesty 
touched  him  with  the  flashing  sword- 
blade  and  bid  him  rise  up  Sir  George. 

Once  would  my  heart  with  the  wildest  emotion. 
Throb,  dearest  Eily,  when  near  niewertthou; 
Now  I  regard  thee  with  deep 

The  strain  was  interrupted,  and 
George,  as  he  ceased  it,  glanced  up. 
Meta,  looking,  it  must  be  confessed, 
rather  black  about  the  hands  and 
pinafore,  as  if  Margery  had  not  had 
time  to  attend  to  her  within  the  last 
hour,  came  running  in.  George  shut 
up  his  knife  and  held  out  his  arms. 

"  Papa,  are  we  to  have  tea  at  home, 
or  after  we  get  into  the  lodgings  ?" 

"Ask  mamma,"  responded  George. 

"  Mamma  told  me  to  ask  you.  She 
doesn't  know,  she  says.  She's  too 
busy  to  talk  to  me.  She's  getting  the 
great  box  on  to  the  stand." 

"  She's  doing  what  ?"  cried  George, 
in  a  quick  accent. 

"  Getting  the  great  box  on  to  the 
stand,"  repeated  Meta.   "  She's  going 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


357 


to  pack  it.  Papa,  will  the  lodgings 
be  better  than  this  ?  Will  there  be  a 
big  garden  ?  Margery  says  there'll 
be  no  room  for  my  rocking-horse. 
Won't  there  ?" 

Something  in  the  child's  questions 
may  have  grated  on  the  fine  ear  of 
George  Godolphin,  had  he  stayed  to 
listen  to  them.  However  lightly  the 
bankruptcy  might  be  passing  over 
George's  mind  on  his  own  score,  he 
regretted  its  results  most  bitterly  for 
his  wife  and  child.  To  see  them  turned 
from  their  home,  condemned  to  de- 
scend to  the  inconvenience  and  ob- 
scurity of  these  poor  lodgings,  was 
the  worst  pill  George  Godolphin  had 
ever  had  to  swallow.  He  would  have 
cut  off  his  right  arm  to  retain  them 
in  their  position  ;  ay,  and  also  his 
left :  he  could  have  struck  himself 
down  to  the  earth  in  his  rage,  for  the 
disgrace  he  had  brought  on  them. 

Hastening  up  the  stairs,  he  entered 
his  bedroom.  It  was  in  a  litter; 
boxes  and  wearing-apparel  lying 
about.  Maria,  flushed  and  breathless, 
was  making  great  efforts  to  drag  a 
cumbrous  trunk  on  a  stand,  or  small 
bench,  for  the  convenience  of  filling 
it.  No  very  extensive  efforts,  either  ; 
for  she  knew  that  such  might  harm 
her  at  present  in  her  feeble  strength. 

George  raised  the  trunk  to  its  place 
with  one  lift  of  his  manly  arms,  and 
then  forced  his  wife,  with  more  gentle- 
ness, into  a  chair. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  imprudent, 
Maria  ?"  broke  from  him  in  a  vexed 
tone,  as  he  stood  before  her. 

"  I  was  not  hurting  myself,"  she  an- 
swered. "The  things  must  be  packed." 

"  Of  course  they  must.  But  not  by 
you.     Where's  Margery  ?" 

"  Margery  has  a  great  deal  to  do. 
She  cannot  do  it  all." 

"  Then  where's  Sarah  ?"  resumed 
George,  crossly  and  sharply. 

"  Sarah's  in  the  kitchen  getting  our 
dinner  ready.  We  must  have  some 
to-day." 

"  Show  me  what  the  things  are, 
and  I  will  pack  them." 

"  Nonsense  !  As  if  it  would  hurt 
me  to  put  the  things  into  the  box ! 


You  never  interfered  with  me  before, 
George. " 

"  You  never  attempted  this  sort  of 
work  before.  I  won't  have  it,  Maria. 
Were  you  in  a  fit  state  of  health  to 
be  knocking  about,  you  might  do  it ; 
but  you  shall  certainly  not  as  it  is." 

It  was  his  self-reproach  that  was 
causing  his  angry  tone  ;  very  keenly 
at  that  moment  was  it  making  itself 
heard.  And  Maria's  spirits  were  not 
that  day  equal  to  sharpness  of  speech. 
It  told  upon  her,  and  she  burst  into . 
tears. 

How  terribly  the  signs  of  distress 
vexed  him,  no  words  could  tell.  He 
took  them  as  a  tacit  reproach  to  him- 
self. And  they  were  so :  however 
unintentional  on  her  part  such  re- 
proach might  be. 

"  Maria,  I  won't  have  this  ;  I  can't 
bear  it,"  he  cried,  his  voice  hoarse 
with  emotion.  "  If  you  show  this 
temper,  this  childish  sorrow  before 
me,  I  shall  run  away." 

He  could  have  cut  his  tongue  out  for 
so  speaking, — for  his  stinging  words  ; 
for  their  stinging  tone.  "  Temper  ! 
Childish  sorrow  !"  George  chafed  at 
himself  in  his  self-condemnation  :  he 
chafed — he  knew  how  unjustly — at 
Maria. 

Very,  very  unjustly.  She  had  not 
annoyed  him  with  reproaches,  with 
complaints,  as  some  wives  would  have 
done  ;  she  had  not,  to  him,  shown 
symptoms  of  the  grief  that  was  wear- 
ing out  her  heart.  She  had  been  all 
considerate  to  him,  bearing  up  bravely 
whenever  he  was  at  Prior's  Ash. 
Even  now,  as  she  dried  away  the  re- 
bellious tears,  she  would  not  let  him 
think  they  were  being  shed  for  the 
lost  happiness  of  the  past,  but  mur- 
mured some  feeble  excuse  about  a 
headache. 

He  saw  through  the  fond  deceit ; 
he  saw  all  the  generosity ;  and  the 
red  shame  mantled  in  his  fair  face  as 
he  bent  down  to  her,  and  his  voice 
changed  to  one  of  the  deepest  tender- 
ness. 

"If  I  have  lost  you  this  home, 
Maria,  I  will  get  you  another,"  he 
whispered.     "  Only  give    me  a  little 


358 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


time.  Don't  grieve  before  me  if  you 
can  help  it,  my  darling:  it  is  as 
though  you  ran  a  knife  into  my  very 
soul.  I  can  bear  the  loud  abuse  of 
the  whole  world,  better  than  one  silent 
reproach  from  you." 

And  the  sweet  words  came  to  her 
as  a  precious  balm.  However  bitter 
had  been  the  shock  of  that  one  rude 
awaking,  she  loved  him  fondly  still. 
It  may  be  that  she  loved  him  only 
the  more  :  for  the  passions  of  the  hu- 
man heart  are  wayward  and  willful, 
utterly  unamenable  to  control. 

Margery  came  into  the  room  With 
her  hands  and  arms  full.  George  may 
have  been  glad  of  the  divertisement, 
and  he  turned  upon  her,  his  voice  re- 
suming its  anger.  "  What's  the  mean- 
ing of  this,  Margery  ?  I  come  up 
here  and  I  find  your  mistress  packing 
and  lugging  boxes  about.  Can't  you 
see  to  these  things  ?" 

Margery  was  as  cross  as  George 
that  day,  and  her  answer  in  its  sharp- 
ness might  have  rivalled  his.  Direct 
reproof  Margery  had  never  presumed 
to  offer  her  master,  though  she  would 
have  liked  to  do  it  amazingly  ;  for  not 
a  single  condemner  held  a  more  ex- 
aggerated view  of  Mr.  George's  past 
delinquencies  than  she. 

"I  can't  be  in  ten  places  at  once. 
And  I  can't  do  the  work  of  ten  people. 
If  you  know  them  that  can,  sir,  you'd 
better  get  'em  here  in  my  place." 

"  Did  I  not  ask  you  if  you  should 
want  assistance  in  the  packing,  and 
you  told  me  that  you  should  not  ?" 
retorted  George. 

"  No  more  I  don't  want  it,"  was  the 
answer.  "  I  can  do  all  the  packing 
that  is  to  do  here,  if  I  am  let  alone, 
and  allowed  to  take  my  own  time  and 
do  it  in  my  own  way.  In  all  that 
ohaffling  and  changing  of  houses  when 
my  Lady  Godolphin  chose  to  move 
Ashlyclyat's  things  to  the  Folly,  and 
when  they  had  to  be  moved  back 
afterwards  in  accordance  with  Sir 
George's  will,  who  did  the  best  part 
of  the  packing  and  saw  to  every  thing, 
but  me  ?  It  would  be  odd  if  I 
couldn't   put  up   a  few  gowns    and 


shirts,  but  I  must  be  talked  to  about 
help  !" 

Poor  Margery  was  evidently  in  an 
explosive  temper.  Time  back  George 
would  have  put  her  down  with  a 
haughty  word  of  authority  or  with 
joking  mockery,  as  the  humor  might 
have  taken  him.  He  did  not  to-day. 
There  had  been  wrong  inflicted  upon 
Margery ;  and  it  may  be  that  he  was 
feeling  it.  She  had  lost  the  poor  sav- 
ings of  years, — the  Brays  bad  not  al- 
lowed them  to  be  great  ones  ;  she  had 
lost  the  money  bequeathed  to  her  by 
Mrs.  Godolphin.  All  had  been  in  the 
bank,  and  all  had  gone.  In  addition 
to  this,  there  were  personal  discom- 
forts. Marger)r  found  the  work  of  a 
common  servant  thrown  upon  her  in 
her  old  age :  an  undergirl,  Sarah, 
was  her  only  help  now  at  the  bank, 
and  Margery  alone  would  follow  their 
fallen  fortunes  to  these  lodgings. 

"  Do  as  you  please,"  was  all  George 
said.  "But  your  mistress  shall  not 
meddle  with  it." 

"  If  my  mistress  chooses  to  set  on 
and  get  to  work  behind  my  back,  I 
can't  stop  it.  She  knows  there's  no 
need  to  do  it.  If  you'll  be  so  good, 
ma'am,"  turning  to  her  mistress,  "as 
just  let  things  alone  and  leave  'em  to 
me,  you'll  find  they'll  be  done.  What's 
a  few  bits  of  clothes  to  pack  ?"  in- 
dignantly repeated  Margery.  "And 
there's  nothing  else  that  we  may  take. 
If  I  was  to  put  up  but  a  pair  of  sheets 
or  a  tin  dish-cover,  I  should  be  called 
a  thief,  I  suppose." 

There  lay  the  great  grievance  of 
Margery's  present  mood, — that  all  the 
things,  save  the  "few bits  of  clothes," 
must  be  left  behind.  Margery,  for 
all  her  crustiness  and  her  out-spoken 
temper,  was  a  most  faithfully-attached 
servant,  and  it  may  be  questioned  if 
she  did  not  feel  the  abandoning  of 
their  goods  in  a  keener  degree  than 
did  even  Maria  and  George.  The 
things  were  not  hers  :  every  article 
of  her  own,  even  to  a  silver  cream - 
jug,  which  had  been  the  boasted  treas- 
ure of  her  life,  she  had  been  allowed 
to  retain  ;  even  to  the  little  work-box 


THE    SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


359 


of  white  satin-wood,  with  its  land- 
scape on  the  lid,  the  trees  of  which 
Miss  Meta  had  been  permitted  to 
paint  red,  and  the  cottage  blue.  Not 
an  article  of  Margery's  but  she  could 
remove ;  all  was  sacred  to  her :  but 
in  her  fidelity  she  did  resent  bitterly 
the  having  to  leave  the  property  of 
her  master  and  mistress,  the  not  being 
at,  liberty  to  pack  up  so  much  as  a 
"  tin  dish-cover." 

Maria,    debarred     from     assisting, 
wandered  in  her  restlessness  through 
some  of  the  moi-e  familiar  rooms.     It 
was  well  that  she  should  pay  them  a 
farewell   visit.     From    the    bedroom 
where  the  packing  was  going  on,  to 
George's  dressing-room,  thence  to  her 
own  sittiag-room,  thence. to  the  draw- 
ing-room, all  on  that  floor.     She  lin- 
gered in  all.      A  home  sanctified  by 
years  of  happiness  cannot  be  quitted 
without  regret,  even  when  exchanged 
at  pleasure  for  another ;  but  to  turn 
out  of  it  in  humiliation,  in  poverty,  in 
hopelessness,  is  a  trial  of  the  sharpest 
and  sorest  kind.     Apart  from  the  pain, 
the  feeling  was  a  strange  one.     The 
objects    crowding   these    rooms ;    the 
necessary   furniture,  costly  and   sub- 
stantial ;    the   elegant   ornaments   of 
various   shapes  and   sorts,  the  chaste 
works   of  art,  not   necessary  but   so 
luxurious  and  charming,  had  hitherto 
been   their   own,  her's  in  conjunction 
with    her    husband's.        They    might 
have    done    what   they   pleased  with 
them.     Had  she  broken  that  Wedge- 
wood  vase,  there  was  no  one  to  call 
her   to    account   for   it ;     had  she   or 
George  chosen  to  make  a  present  of 
that  rare  basket  in  medallion,  with  its 
speaking   likenesses  of    the   beauties 
of  the  whilom  gay  French  court,  there 
was  nobody  to  say  them  nay ;  had 
they  felt  disposed  to  change  that  fine 
piano  for  a  different  one,  the  liberty 
to  do  so  was  theirs.     They  had  been 
the  owners  of  these  surroundings,  the 
master  and  mistress  of  the  house  and 
its  contents.     And  now  ?     Not  a  sole 
article   belonged  to  them  :  they  were 
but  tenants  on  sufferance  :  the  things 
remained,  but  their  right  in  them  had 
passed   away.     If    she   dropped  and 


broke  only  that  pretty  trifle  which  her 
hand  was  touching  now,  she  must  an- 
swer for  the  mishap.  The  feeling,  I 
say,  was  a  strange  one. 

She  walked  through  the  rooms  with 
a  dry  eye  and  hot  brow.  Tears  seemed 
long  ago  to  have  gone  away  from  her. 
It  is  true  she  had  been  surprised  into 
a  few  that  day,  but  the  lapse  was  un- 
usual. Why  should  she  make  this 
farewell  to  the  rooms  ?  she  began  ask- 
ing herself.  She  needed  it  not  to  re- 
member them.  Visions  of  the  past 
came  crowding  upon  her  memory  ;  of 
this  or  the  other  happy  day  spent  in 
them  ;  of  the  gay  meetings  when  they 
had  received  the  world,  of  the  sweet 
home-hours  when  she  had  sat  there 
alone  with  him  of  whom  she  had  well- 
nigh  made  an  idol, — her  husband. 
Mistaken  idolatry,  Mrs.  George  Go- 
dolphin  !  mistaken,  useless,  vain  idol- 
atry. Was  there  ever  an  earthly  idol 
yet  that  did  not  mock  its  worshiper  ? 
I  know  of  none.  We  make  an  idol  of 
our  child,  and  the  time  comes  when  it 
will  turn  round  to  sting  us  ;  we  mak^ 
an  idol  of  the  god  or  goddess  of  our 
passionate  love, — and  how  does  it 
end  ? 

Maria  sat  down  and  leaned  her  head 
upon  her  hand,  thinking  more  of  the 
past  than  of  the  future.  She  was  get- 
ting to  have  less  hope  in  the  future 
than  was  good  for  her  :  it  is  a  bad  sign 
when  a  sort  of  apathy  with  regard  to 
it  steals  over  us ;  a  proof  that  the 
mind  is  not  in  the  healthy  state  that 
it  ought  to  be.  A  time  of  trial,  of 
danger,  Avas  approaching  for  Maria, 
and  she  seemed  to  contemplate  the 
possibility  of  her  sinking  under  it  with 
strange  calmness.  A  few  months 
back,  the  bare  glance  at  such  a  fear 
would  have  unhinged  her  :  she  would 
have  clung  to  her  husband  and  Meta. 
and  sobbed  out  her  passionate  prayer 
to  God  in  her  dire  distress,  not  to  be 
taken  from  them.  Things  had  changed: 
the  world  in  which  she  had  been  so 
happy  had  lost  its  charm  for  her  ;  the 
idol  in  whose  arms  she  had  sheltered 
herself  turned  out  not  to  have  been  of 
pure  gold  :  and  Maria  Godolphin  be- 
2-an  to  realize  the  forcible  truths  of  the 


360 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT. 


words  of  the  wise  King  of  Jerusalem, 
— that  the  world  and  its  dearest  hopes 
are  but  vanity. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

MRS.    PAIN   TAKING   LEAVE. 

Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain,  in  her  looped- 
np  petticoats  and  nicely-fitting  kid 
boots,  was  tripping  jauntily  through 
the  streets  of  Prior's  Ash.  Mrs.  Pain 
had  been  somewhat  vacillating  in  re- 
gard to  her  departure  from  that  long- 
familiar  town  ;  she  had  reconsidered 
her  determination  of  quitting  it  so  ab- 
ruptly ;  and  on  the  day  she  went  out 
of  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly,  she  entered 
on  some  stylish  lodgings  in  the  heart 
of  Prior's  Ash.  Only  for  a  week  or 
two;  just  to  give  her  time  to  take 
proper  leave  of  her  friends,  she  said  : 
but  the  weeks  had  gone  on  and  on, 
and  Charlotte  was  there  yet. 

Society  had  been  glad  to  keep  Char- 
lotte. Society,  of  course,  shuts  its 
lofty  ears  to  the  ill-natured  tales  spread 
by  low-bred  people  :  that  is,  when  it 
finds  it  convenient  to  do  so.  Society 
had  been  pleased  to  be  deaf  to  any 
little  obscure  tit-bits  of  scandal  which 
had  made  vulgarly  free  with  Char- 
lotte's name  :  and  as  to  the  vague  ru- 
mors connecting  Mr.  Yerrall  with 
George  Godolphin's  ruin,  nobody  knew 
whether  that  was  not  pure  scandal, 
too.  But  if  not,  why — Mrs.  Pain 
could  not  be  justly  reflected  on  for  the 
faults  of  Mr.  Yerrall.  So  Charlotte 
was  as  popular  and  dashing  in  her 
hired  rooms  as  she  had  been  at  Lady 
Godolphin's  Folly,  and  she  had  re- 
mained in  them  until  now. 

But  now  she  was  really  going. 
This  was  the  last  day  of  her  sojourn 
at  Prior's  Ash,  and  Charlotte  was 
walking  about  unceremoniously,  be- 
stowing her  farewells  on  anybody  who 
would  receive  them.  It  almost  seemed 
as  if  she  had  only  waited  to  witness 
the  removal  from  the  bank  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  George  Godolphin. 


She  walked  along  in  exuberant 
spirits,  nodding  her  head  to  every- 
body :  up  at  windows,  in  at  doorways, 
to  poor  people  on  foot,  to  rich  ones  in 
carriages  ;  her  good-natured  smile  was 
everywhere.  She  rushed  into  shops, 
and  chatted  familiarly,  and  won  the 
shopkeepers'  hearts  by  asking  if  they 
were  not  sorry  to  lose  her.  She  was 
turning  out  of  one,  when  she  came 
pop  on  the  rector  of  All  Souls'.  Char- 
lotte's petticoats  went  down  in  a  swim- 
ming reverence. 

"  I  am  paying  my  farewell  visits, 
Mr.  Hastings.  Prior's  Ash  will  be 
rid  of  me  to-morrow." 

Not  an  answering  smile  crossed  the 
rector's  face  :  it  was  cold,  impassive, 
haughtily  civil :  almost  as  if  he  were 
thinking  that  Prior's  Ash  might  have 
been  none  the  worse  had  it  been  rid 
of  Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain  before. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Hastings  to-day  ?" 
asked  Charlotte. 
"She  is  not  well." 
"  No  !  I  must  try  and  get  a  minute 
to  call  in  on  her.  Adieu  for  the 
present.  I  shall  see  you  again,  I 
hope." 

Down  sunk  the  skirts  once  more, 
and  the  rector  lifted  his  hat  in  silence. 
In  the  ultra-politeness,  in  the  spice  of 
sauciness  gleaming  out  from  her  flash- 
ing eyes,  the  rector  read  incipient  de- 
fiance. But  if  Mrs.  Pain  feared  that 
he  might  be  intending  to  favor  her 
with  a  little  public  clerical  censure, 
she  was  entirely  mistaken.  The  rec- 
tor washed  his  hands  of  Mrs.  Pain,  as 
Lady  Godolphin  did  of  her  step-son, 
Mr.  George.  He  walked  on,  con- 
demnation and  scorn  lighting  his 
face. 

Charlotte  walked  on,  and  burst  into 
a  laugh  as  she  did  so.  "  Was  he 
afraid  to  forbid  my  calling  at  the  rec- 
tory ?"  she  asked  herself.  "  He  would 
have  liked  to,  I  know.  I'll  go  there 
now." 

She  was  not  long  reaching  it.  But 
Isaac  was  the  only  one  of  the  family 
she  got  to  see.  He  came  to  her, 
charged  with  Mrs.  Hastings's  compli- 
ments,— she  felt  unequal  to  seeing 
Mrs.  Pain. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


361 


"  What's  the  matter  with  her  ?"  in- 
quired Charlotte,  suspecting  the  va- 
lidity of  the  excuse. 

"  She  is  never  very  well  now,"  was 
the  somewhat-evasive  answer :  and 
Tsaac,  though  civilly  courteous,  was 
as  cold  as  his  father.  "  When  do  you 
say  you  leave  us,  Mrs.  Pain  ?" 

"  To-morrow  morning.  And  you  ? 
I  heard  you  were  going  to  London, 
foil  have  found  some  situation  there, 
George  Godolphin  told  me." 

Isaac  threw  his  eyes — they  were 
just  like  the  rector's — straight  and  full 
into  her  face.  Charlotte's  were  dancing 
with  a  variety  of  expressions,  but  the 
chief  one  was  good-humored  mis- 
chief." 

"  I  am  going  into  a  bank  in  Lom- 
bard Street.  Mr.  Godolphin  got  me 
in." 

"  You  won't  like  it,"  said  Char- 
lotte. 

"I  dare  say  not.  But  I  think  my- 
self lucky  to  get  it." 

"  There'll  be  one  advantage,"  con- 
tinued Charlotte,  good-naturedly, — 
,;  that  you  can  come  and  see  us.  You 
know  Mrs.  Verrall's  address.  Come 
as  often  as  you  can  ;  every  Sunday,  if 
you  like  ;  any  week-day  evening  : 
I'll  promise  vou  a  welcome  before- 
hand." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  briefly  re- 
turned Isaac.  They  were  walking 
slowly  to  the  gate,  and  he  held  it  open 
for  her. 

"  What's  Reginald  doing  ?"  she 
asked.  "  Have  you  heard  from  him 
lately  ?» 

''Not  very  lately.  You  are  aware 
that  he  is  in  London  under  a  master 
of  navigation,  preparatory  to  passing 
for  second  officer.  As  soon  as  he  has 
parsed,  he  will  be  going  to  sea 
again. " 

"  When  you  write  to  him,  give  him 
our  address,  and  tell  him  to  come  and 
see  me.  And  now  good-by,"  added 
Charlotte,  heartily.  "And  mind  you 
don't  show  yourself  a  muff,  Mr. 
Isaac,  but  come  and  see  us.  Do  you 
hear  ?" 

"  I  hear,"  said  Isaac,  smiling,  as  he 


thawed  to  her  good  humor.  I  wish 
you  a  pleasant  journey,  Mrs.  Pain." 

"  Merci  bien.     If 1  say,  is  that 

Grace  ?" 

Charlotte  had  cast  her  eyes  to  the 
rectory's  upper  windows.  Mrs.  Ake- 
man,  her  baby  in  her  arms, — a  great 
baby,  getting  now, — stood  at  one. 

"  She  is  spending  the  afternoon  with 
us,"  explained  Isaac. 

"And  wouldn't  come  down  to  me," 
retorted  Charlotte.  "  She's  very  po- 
lite. Tell  her  so  from  me,  Isaac. 
Good-by." 

The  church-clock  boomed  out  five 
as  Charlotte  passed  it,  and  she  came 
to  a  stand-still  of  consideration.  It 
was  the  hour  at  which  she  had  ordered 
her  dinner  to  be  ready. 

"  Bother  dinner  !"  decided  she.  "  I 
can't  go  home  for  that.  I  want  to  go 
and  see  if  they  are  in  their  lodgings 
yet.     Is  that  you,  Mrs.  Bond  ?" 

Sure  enough,  Mrs.  Bond  had  come 
into  view,  and  was  halting  to  bob 
down  to  Charlotte.  Her  face  looked 
pale  and  pinched.  There  had  been  no 
supply  of  strong  waters  to-day. 

"I  be  a'most  starving  ma'am,"  said 
she.  "  I  be  a  waiting  here  to  catch  the 
parson,  for  I've  been  to  his  house,  and 
they  says  he's  out.  I-  dun  know  as 
it's  of  any  good  seeing  of  him,  either. 
'Taint  much  as  he  have  got  to  give 
away  now. " 

"I  am  about  to  leave,  Mrs.  Bond," 
cried  Charlotte,  in  her  free  and  com- 
municative humor. 

"  More's  the  ill-luck,  and  I  have 
heered  on't,"  responded  Mrs.  Bond. 
"  Everybody  as  is  good  to  us  poor 
goes  awaj",  or  dies,  or  fails,  or  sum'at. 
There'll  be  soon  naught  left  for  us  but 
the  work'us.  Many's  the  odd  bit  o' 
silver  you  havo  give  me  at  times, 
ma'am." 

"  So  I  have,"  said  Charlotte,  laugh- 
ing. "  What  if  I  were  to  give  you 
this,  as  a  farewell  remembrance  ?" 

She  took  a  half-sovereign  out  of  her 
purse  and  held  it  up.  Mrs.  Bond 
gasped  :  the  luck  seemed  too  great  to 
be  realized. 

"  Here,   you    may   have    it,"    said 


362 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


Charlotte,  dropping  it  into  the  shak- 
ing and  dirty  hand  held  out.  "But 
you  know  you  are  nothing  but  an  old 
sinner,  Mrs.  Bond:" 

"  I  knows  I  be,"  humbly  acquiesced 
Mrs.  Bond.  "  'Tain't  of  no  good 
denying  of  it  to  you,  ma'am  :  you  be 
up  to  things." 

Charlotte  laughed.  "You'll  go  and 
change  this  at  the  nearest  gin-shop, 
and  you'll  reel  into  bed  to-night,  blind- 
fold. That's  the  only  good  you'll  do 
with  it.  There  !  don't  say  I  quitted 
Prior's  Ash,  forgetting  you." 

She  walked  on  rapidly,  leaving  Mrs 
Bond  in  herecstacy  of  delight  to  waste 
her  thanks  on  the  empty  air.  The 
lodgings  George  had  taken  were  at 
the  opposite  end  of  the  town,  nearer 
to  Ashlydyat,  and  to  them  Charlotte 
was  bound.  They  were  not  on  the 
high-road,  but  in  a  quiet  side  lane.  The 
house,  low  and  commodious,  and  built 
in  the  cottage  style,  stood  in  the  midst 
of  a  productive  garden.  A  small 
grass-plat  and  some  flowers  were 
before  the  front  windows,  but  the  rest 
of  the  ground  was  filled  with  fruit  and 
vegetables.  Charlotte  opened  the 
green  gate  and  walked  up  the  path, 
which  led  direct  to  the  house. 

The  front-door  was  open  to  a  small 
hall,  and  Charlotte  went  in,  finding 
her  way,  and  turned  to  a  room  on  the 
left, — a  cheerful,  good-sized,  old-fash- 
ioned parlor,  with  a  green  carpet,  and 
pink  flowers  on  its  walls.  There  stood 
Margery,  laying  out  some  teacups 
and  some  bread-and-butter.  Her  eyes 
opened  at  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Pain. 

"Are  they  come  yet,  Margery  ?" 

"No,"  was  Margery's  short  an- 
swer. "  They'll  be  here  in  half  an 
hour,  maybe  ;  and  that'll  be  before  I 
want  'em, — with  all  the  rooms  and 
everv  thing  to  see  to,  and  only  me  to 
do  it." 

"  Is  that  all  you  are  going  to  give 
them  for  tea  ?"  cried  Charlotte  looking 
contemptuously  on  the  bread-and- 
butter.  "  I  should  surprise  them  with 
a  little  dainty  dish  or  two  on  the  table. 
Tt  would  look  cheering  :  and  they 
might  soon  be  cooked." 

"I   dare    say   they   might,    where 


there's  conveniences  and  time,"  wrath- 
fully  returned  Margery,  who  relished 
Mrs.  Pain's  interference  as  little  as 
she  relished  her  presence.  "  The 
kitchen  we  are  to  have  is  about  as  big 
as  a  rat-hole,  and  my  hands  are  full 
enough  this  evening  without  dancing 
out  to  buy  meats,  and  trying  if  the 
grate'll  cook  'em." 

"  Of  course  you  will  light  the  fire 
here,"  said  Charlotte,  turning  to  the 
grate.     "  I  see  it  is  laid." 

"  It  is  not  cold,"  grunted  Margery. 

"But  the  fire  will  be  like  a  pleasant 
welcome.     I'll  do  it  myself." 

She  caught  up  a  box  of  matches 
which  stood  on  the  mantlepiece,  and 
set  fire  to  the  fagots  underneath  the 
coal.  Margery  took  no  notice  one 
way  or  the  other.  The  fire  in  a  fair 
way  of  burning,  Charlotte  hastened 
from  the  house,  and  Margery  breathed 
freely  again. 

Not  for  long.  A  short  space  and 
Charlotte  was  back  again,  accompanied 
by  sundry  parcels.  There  was  a  re- 
nowned comestible  shop  in  Prior's 
Ash,  and  Charlotte  had  been  ransack- 
ing it.  She  had  also  been  home  for  a 
small  parcel  on  her  own  account :  but 
that  did  not  contain  eatables. 

Taking  off  her  cloak  and  bonnet, 
she  made  herself  at  home.  Critically 
surveying  the  bedrooms  ;  visiting  the 
kitchen  to  see  that  the  kettle  boiled  ; 
lighting  the  lamp  on  the  tea-table,  for 
it  was  dark  then  ;  demanding  an  un- 
limited supply  of  plates,  and  driving 
Margery  nearly  wild  with  her  audacity. 
But  Charlotte  was  doing  it  all  in  good 
feeling,  in  her  desire  to  render  this 
new  asylum  bright-looking  at  the 
moment  of  their  taking  possession  of 
it ;  to  cheat  the  first  entrance  of  some 
of  its  bitterness  for  Maria.  Whatever 
may  have  been  Mrs.  Charlotte  Pain's 
faults, — and  Margery,  for  one,  gave 
her  credit  for  plenty, — she  was  capable 
of  generous  impulses.  It  is  probable 
that  in  the  days  gone  by,  a  feeling  of 
jealousy,  of  spite,  had  rankled  in  her 
heart  against  George  Godolphin's  wife  : 
but  that  had  worn  itself  out, — had  been 
finally  lost  in  the  sorrow  felt  for  Marut 
since     the     misfortunes     had     fallen. 


THE     SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


363 


When  the  fly  drove  up  to  the  door, 
pad  George  brought  in  his  wife  and 
Meta,  the  bright  room,  the  well-laden 
ton-table  greeted  their  surprised  eyes, 
and  Charlotte  was  advancing  with 
open  hands. 

"  I  thought  you'd  like  to  see  some- 
body here  to  get  things  comfortable 
for  you,  and  I  knew  that  cross-grained 
Margery  would  have  enough  to  do 
between  the  boxes  and  her  temper," 
she  cried,  taking  Maria's  hands.  "  How 
are  you,  Mr.  George  ?" 

George  found  his  tongue.  "  This  is 
kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Pain." 

Maria  felt  that  it  was  kind  :  and  in 
her  tide  of  gratitude,  as  her  hand  lay 
in  Charlotte's  warm  grasp,  she  almost 
forgot  that  cruel  calumny.  Not  quite  : 
it  could  not  quite  be  forgotten,  even 
momentarily,  until  earth  and  its  pas- 
sions should  have  passed  away. 

"And  mademoiselle?"  continued 
Charlotte.  Mademoiselle,  little  gour- 
mande  that  she  was,  raised  on  her 
toes,  surveying  the  table  with  curious 
eyes.  Charlotte  lifted  her  in  her 
arms,  and  held  up  to  her  view  a  glass 
jar,  something  inside  it  the  color  of 
pale  amber.  "  This  is  for  good  chil- 
dren, this  is." 

"  That's  me,"  responded  Meta, 
smacking  her  lips.     "  What  is  it  ?" 

"  It's, — let  me  read  the  label, — it's 
pine-apple  jelly.  And  that's  boned 
fowl ;  and  that's  gelatine  de  veau ; 
and  that's  pate  de  lapereau  aux  truffes, 
— jf  you  understand  what  it  all  means, 
petite  marmotte.  And — there — you 
can  look  at  every  thing  and  find  out 
for  yourself,"  concluded  Charlotte. 
"  I  am  going  to  show  mamma  her 
bedroom." 

It  opened  from  the  sitting-room, — 
a  commodious  arrangement,  as  Char- 
lotte observed,  in  case  of  illness. 
Maria  cast  her  eyes  round  it,  and  saw 
a  sufficiently  comfortable  chamber.  It 
was  not  their  old  luxurious  chamber 
at  the  bank  :  but  luxuries  and  they 
must  part  company  now. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Charlotte,  drop- 
ping her  voice  to  a  whisper. 

She  was  pointing  with  her  finger 
to  the  chest  of  drawers.    Placed  back, 


the  only  object  on  its  white  covering 
was  the  miniature  red  trunk  which 
Maria  had  given  into  her  charge  in 
the  summer. 

"Oh,thaiikyou  ! — thank  yon  greatly 
for  taking  care  of  it,  Mrs.  Pain." 

"It  is  safe  here  now.  You  and 
the  enemy  have  parted  company. 
Though  it  were  heaped  full  of  dia- 
monds, they'd  not  come  and  look  after 
them  here.     Is  it  ?" 

"What?  Full  of  diamonds  ?"  Ma- 
ria shook  her  head.  "  Indeed,  I  told 
you  truth,  Mrs.  Pain,  when  I  said 
there  was  nothing  in  it  of  value.  It 
contains  but  a  few  letters  and  papers, 
and  a  lock  or  two  of  my  dead  chil- 
dren's hair." 

"  In-deedf"  exclaimed  Charlotte, 
with  a  sweetly  innocent  look.  "  Then 
you  and  I  are  different,  Mrs.  George 
Godolphin.  Were  the  like  calamity 
to  happen  to  my  husband — if  I  had 
one — I  should  consider  it  a  praise- 
worthy virtue  to  save  all  I  could 
from  the  grasp  of  the  spoilers.  Come 
along.  We  shall  have  Meta  going 
into  all  the  good  things." 

Charlotte  reigned  at  the  head  of  the 
table  that  night,  triumphantly  gay. 
Margery  waited  with  a  stiffened  neck 
and  pursed-up  lips.  Nothing  more  ; 
there  were  no  other  signs  of  rebellion. 
Margery  had  had  her  say  out  with 
that  one  memorable  communication, 
and  from  thenceforth  her  lips  were 
closed  forever.  Did  the  woman  re- 
pent of  having  spoken  ? — did  she  now 
think  it  better  to  have  let  doubt  be 
doubt  ?  It  is  hard  to  say.  She  had 
made  no  further  objection  to  Mrs. 
Pain  in  words  ;  she  intended  to  make 
none.  If  that  lady  filled  Miss  Meta 
to  bursting  to-night  with  the  pine- 
apple jelly  and  the  boned  fowl,  and 
the  other  things  with  unpronounce- 
able names,  which  Margery  legarded 
as  rank  poison  when  regaling  Miss 
Meta,  she  should  not  interfere.  The 
sin  might  lie  on  her  master  and  mis- 
tress's head. 

It  was  close  upon  ten  when  Char- 
lotte rose  to  go.  She  put  on  her 
things,  and  bent  over  Maria  in  greet- 
ing.    "  Take  care  of  yourself,   Mrs. 


364 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDTAT 


George,"  she  said,  in  a  kindly  tone. 
"  Now  that  the  worst  is  over,  things 
will  soon  come  round  again.  And  if 
you  should  find  it  convenient  to  get 
rid  of  Meta  for  a  bit,  send  her  up  to 
me.     I'll  take  great  care  of  her." 

Margery  stood  with  the  door  open. 
George  was  taking  down  his  hat. 

"  I  protest  and  declare  you  shall  not, 
Mr.  George  Godolphin  !"  exclaimed 
Charlotte,  divining  bis  intention  of 
seeing  her  home.  "  Do  you  suppose 
I  am  going  to  take  you  from  your 
wife,  the  first  evening  she  is  in  this 
strange  place  ?" 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to 
let  you  be  run  away  with  in  the  dan- 
gerous streets  of  Prior's  Ash  ?"  re- 
turned George,  with  laughing  gal- 
lantry. 

"  I'll  guard  against  that,"  returned 
Charlotte.  "  I  am  old  enough  to  take 
care  of  myself." 

"Why,  I  should  not  be  away  ten 
minutes." 

"  Now,  you  know  when  I  say  a 
thing,  I  mean  it,"  said  Charlotte,  in  a 
peremptory  tone.  "  You  are  not  go- 
ing with  me,  Mr.  George.  I  have  a 
reason  for  wishing  to  go  home  by 
myself.     There." 

George  could  only  yield.  Char- 
lotte had  spoken  still  in  her  kindness 
to  Maria.  In  spite  of  her  own  at- 
tractive presence,  Maria's  spirits  were 
lower  than  they  might  have  been  : 
and  Charlotte  generously  left  her  the 
society  of  her  husband.  As  to  walk- 
ing through  the  streets  of  Prior's  Ash 
alone,  or  through  any  other  streets, 
Charlotte  had  no  foolish  fears,  but 
would  as  soon  go  through  them  by 
night  as  by  day. 

As  a  proof  of  this,  she  did  not  pro- 
ceed direct  homewards,  but  turned  up 
a  road  that  led  to  the  railway.  She 
had  no  objection  to  a  stroll  that  moon- 
light-night, and  she  had  a  fancy  for 
seeing  what  passengers  the  ten-o'clock 
train  brought,  which  was  just  in. 

It  brought  none, — none  that  Char- 
lotte could  see :  and  she  was  pre- 
paring to  turn  back  on  the  dull  road, 
when  a  solitary  figure  came  looming 
on  her  sight  in  the  distance.    He  was 


better  than  nobody,  regarding  him  in 
Charlotte's'  social  point  of  view  :  but 
he  appeared  to  be  advanced  in  years. 
She  could  see  so  much  before  be 
came  up. 

Charlotte  strolled  on,  gratifying  her 
curiosity  by  a  good  stare.  A  tall, 
portly  man,  with  a  fresh  color  and 
snow-white  hair.  She  was  passing 
by  him,  when  he  lifted  his  face,  which 
had  been  bent,  and  turned  it  towards 
her.  The  recognition  was  mutual, 
and  she  darted  up  to  him,  and  gave 
his  hand  a  hearty  shake.  It  was 
Mr.  Crosse. 

"  Good  gracious  me  !  We  all  thought 
you  never  meant  to  come  back  again  !" 

"  And  I'd  rather  not  have  come 
back,  Mrs.  Pain,  than  come  to  hear 
what  I  am  obliged  to  hear.  I  went 
streaming  off  for  weeks  from  Pau, 
where  I  was  staying,  a  confounded, 
senseless  tour  into  Spain,  leaving  no 
orders  for  letters  to  be  sent  to  me, 
and  so  I  heard  nothing.  What  has 
brought  about  this  awful  calamity  ?" 

"  What  calamity  ?"  asked  Char- 
lotte,— knowing  perfectly  well  all  the 
while. 

"  What  calamity  !"  repeated  Mr. 
Crosse,  who  was  rapid  in  speech  and 
hot  in  temper.  "  The  failure  of  the 
bank, — the  Godolphins'  ruin.  What 
else  ?" 

"  Oh,  that !"  slightingly  returned 
Charlotte.  "  That's  stale  news  now. 
Folks  are  forgetting  it.  Queen  Anne's 
dead." 

"  What  brought  it  about  ?"  reiter- 
ated Mr.  Crosse,  neither  the  words 
nor  their  tone  pleasing  him. 

"  What  does  bring  such  things 
about  ?"  rejoined  Charlotte.  "  Wrant 
of  money,  I  suppose, — or  bad  man- 
agement." 

"  But  there  was  no  want  of  money  ; 
there  was  no  bad  management  in  the 
Godolphins'  house,"  raved  Mr.  Crosse, 
becoming  excited.  "  I  wish  you'd  not 
play  with  my  feelings,  Mrs.  Pain." 

"  Who  is  playing  with  them  ?"  cried 
Charlotte.  "  If  it  was  not  want  of 
money,  if  it  was  not  bad  management, 
I  don't  know  what  else  it  was." 

"  I  was  told  in  London,  as  I  came 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT 


365 


through  it,  that  George  Godolphin 
has  been  playing  up  old  Rosemary 
with  every  thing,  and  that  Verrall  has 
helped  him,"  continued  Mr.  Crosse. 

"  Folks  will  talk,"  said  bold  Char- 
lotte. "  I  was  told — it  was  the  cur- 
rent report  in  Prior's  Ash — that  the 
stoppage  had  occurred  through  Mr. 
Crosse  drawing  his  money  out  of  the 
concern." 

"What  an  unfounded  assertion  I" 
exclaimed  that  gentleman,  in  choler. 
"  Prior's  Ash  ought  to  have  known 
better." 

"  So  ought  those  who  tell  you  rub- 
bish about  George  Godolphin  and 
Yerrall,"  coolly  affirmed  Charlotte. 

"Where's  Thomas  Godolphin  ?" 

"At  Ashlydyat.  He's  in  luck.  My 
Lord  Averil  has  bought  it  all  in  as  it 
stands,  and  Mr.  Godolphin  remains  in 
it." 

"  He  is  ill,  I  hear  ?" 

"  Pretty  near  dead,  I  hear,"  retorted 
Charlotte.  "  My  lord  is  to  marry 
Miss  Cecilia." 

"And  where's  that  wicked  George  ?" 

"  If  you  call  names,  I  won't  answer 
you  another  word,  Mr.  Crosse." 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  like  to  hear 
it,"  he  returned  in  so  pointed  a  man- 
ner that  Charlotte  might  have  felt  it 
as  a  lance-shaft.   "Well,  where  is  he  ?" 

"  Just  gone  into  lodgings  with  his 
wife  and  Margery  and  Meta.  I  have 
been  taking  tea  with  them.  They 
left  the  bank  to-day." 

Mr.  Crosse  stood,  nodding  his  head 
in  the  moonlight,  and  communing 
aloud  with  himself.  "  And  so — and 
so — it  is  all  a  smash  together  !  It  is 
as  bad  as  was  said." 

"  It  couldn't  be  worse,"  cried  Char- 
lotte. "Prior's  Ash  won't  hold  up 
its  head  for  many  a  day.  It's  no 
longer  worth  living  in.  I  leave  it  for 
good  to-morrow." 

"  Poor  Sir  George  1  It's  a  good 
thing  he  was  in  his  grave.  Lord  Av- 
eril could  have  prosecuted  George,  I 
hear." 

"  Were  I  to  hear  to-morrow  that  I 
could  be  prosecuted  for  standing  here 
and  talking  to  you  to-night,  I 
shouldn't  wonder,"  was  the  answer. 


"  What  on  earth  did  he  do  with  the 
money  ?     What  went  with  it  ?" 

"  Report  runs  that  he  founded  a 
cluster  of  almshouses  with  it,"  said 
Charlotte,  demurely.  "  Ten  old  women, 
who  are  to  be  found  in  coals  and  red 
cloaks,  and  half-a-crown  a  week." 

The  words  angered  him  beyond 
eveiy  thing.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  serious  than  his  mood, — 
nothing  could  savor  of  levity,  of 
mockery,  more  than  hers.  "Report 
runs  that  he  has  been  giving  fabulous 
prices  for  horses  to  make  presents  of," 
angrily  retorted  Mr.  Crosse,  in  a  tone 
of  pointed  significance. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  returned  undaunt- 
ed Charlotte.     "He  only  gave  bills." 

"  Good-night  to  you,  Mrs.  Pain," 
came  the  next  words,  haughty  and 
abruptly ;  and  Mr.  Crosse  turned  to 
continue  his  way. 

Leaving  Charlotte  standing  there. 
No  other  passengers  came  down  from 
the  station  :  there  were  none  to  come  : 
and  she  turned  to  retrace  her  steps  to 
the  town.  She  walked  slowly  and 
moved  her  head  from  side  to  side,  as 
if  she  would  take  in  all  the  familiar 
features  of  the  landscape  by  way  of  a 
farewell  in  anticipation  of  the  morrow, 
— which  was  to  close  her  residence  at 
Prior's  Ash  forever. 


CHAPTER   LIX. 

MR.  REGINALD  MAKES  A  MORNING  CALL. 

Time  elapsed.  Autumn  weather 
had  come  ;  and  things  were  going  on 
in  their  state  of  progression  at  Prior's 
Ash,  as  things  always  must  go  on. 
Be  it  slow  or  fast,  be  it  marked  or  un- 
marked, the  stream  of  life  must  glide 
forward  ;  onwards,  onwards ;  never 
stopping,  never  turning  from  its  ap- 
pointed course  that  bears  straight 
towards  eternity. 

In  the  events  that  concern  us  noth- 
ing had  been  very  marked.  At  least, 
not  outwardly.  There  were  no  start- 
ling changes  to  be  recorded, — unless, 


366 


THE       SHADOW       OF       ASHLYDYAT. 


indeed,  it  was  that  noted  change  in 
the  heart  of  the  town.  The  bank  of 
which  you  have  heard  so  much  was 
no  more;  but  in  its  stead  nourished 
an  extensive  ironmongery  establish- 
ment,— which  it  was  to  be  hoped 
would  not  come  to  the  same  ignoble 
end.  The  house  had  been  divided 
into  two  dwellings :  the  one,  ac- 
cessible by  the  former  private  en- 
trance, was  let  to  a  quiet  widow  lady 
and  her  son,  a  young  man  reading  for 
the  church  ;  the  other  had  been 
opened  in  all  the  grandeur  and  glory 
of  highly-polished  steel  and  iron. 
Grates,  chimney  -  pieces,  fire  -  irons, 
fenders,  scrapers,  gilded  lamps,  orna- 
mental gratings,  and  other  useful 
things  more  puzzling  to  mention, 
crowded  the  front  windows  and  daz- 
zled the  admiring  eyes  of  the  passers- 
by.  You  might  have  thought  it  was 
gold  and  silver  displayed  there,  when 
the  sun  reflected  its  light  on  the 
shining  wares  and  brought  out  their 
brilliancy.  Not  one  of  the  Godolphins 
could  pass  it  without  a  keen  heart- 
pang,  but  the  general  public  were  con- 
tent to  congregate  and  admire,  as  long 
as  the  novelty  lasted. 

The  great  crash,  which  had  so  upset 
the  equanimity  of  Prior's  Ash,  was 
beginning  to  be  forgotten  as  a  thing 
of  the  past.  The  bankruptcy  was  at 
an  end, — save  for  some  remaining  pro- 
ceedings of  form  which  did  not  con- 
cern the  general  public,  and  not  much 
the  creditors.  Compassion  for  those 
who  had  been  injured  by  the  calamity 
was  dying  out :  many  a  home  had 
been  rendered  needy,  many  desolate  ; 
but  outside  people  do  not  make  these 
uncomfortable  facts  any  lasting  con- 
cern of  theirs.  There  were  only  two 
who  did  make  them  so,  in  regard  to 
Prior's  Ash  :  and  they  would  make 
them  so  as  long  as  their  lives  should 
last. 

George  Godolphin's  wife  was  lying 
in  her  poor  lodgings,  and  Thomas  was 
dying  at  Ashlydyat, — dying  so  slowly 
and  imperceptibly  that  the  passage  to 
the  grave  was  smoothed,  and  the  town 
began  to  say  that  he  might  recover 
yet.     1  he  wrong  inflicted  upon  others, 


however  unwillingly  on  his  own  part, 
the  distress  rife  in  many  a  house 
around,  was  ever  present  to  him.  It 
was  ever  present  to  Maria.  Some  of 
those  who  had  lost  were  able  to  bear 
it;  but  there  were  others  upon  whom 
it  had  brought  privation,  poverty, 
utter  ruin.  It  was  for  these  last  that 
the  sting  was  felt. 

A  little  boy  had  been  born  to  Maria, 
and  had  died  at  the  end  of  a  few  days. 
He  was  baptized  Thomas.  "  Name 
him  Thomas :  it  will  be  a  remem- 
brance of  my  brother,"  George  Godol- 
phin  had  said.  But  the  young  Thomas 
died  before  the  elder  one.  The  same 
disorder  which  had  taken  off  two  of 
Maria's  other  infants  took  off  him, — 
convulsions.  "  Best  that  it  should  be 
so,"  said  Maria,  with  closed  eyes  and 
folded  hands. 

Somehow  she  could  not  get  strong 
again.  Lying  in  bed,  sick  and  weak, 
she  had  time  to  ruminate  upon  the 
misfortunes  which  had  befallen  them  : 
the  bitter,  hopeless  reminiscence  of 
the  past,  the  trouble  and  care  of  the 
present,  the  uncertainty  of  the  future. 
To  dwell  upon  such  themes  is  not 
good  for  the  strongest  frame  ;  but  for 
the  weak  it  may  be  worse  than  can  be 
expressed.  Whether  it  was  that,  or 
whether  it  was  a  tendency  to  keep 
sick,  which  might  have  arisen  without 
any  mental  trouble  at  all,  Maria  did 
not  get  strong.  Mr.  Snow  sent  her 
no  end  of  tonics  ;  he  ordered  her  all 
kinds  of  renovating  dainties  ;  he  sat 
and  chatted  and  joked  with  her  by  the 
half-hour  together :  and  it  availed 
not.  She  was  about  again,  as  the 
saying  runs,  but  she  remained  lamenta- 
bly weak.  "You  don't  make  an 
effort  to  arouse  yourself,"  Mr.  Snow 
would  say,  thumping  his  stick  in  dis- 
pleasure upon  the  floor  as  he  spoke. 
Well,  perhaps  she  did  not :  the  plain 
fact  was,  that  there  was  neither  the 
health  nor  the  spirit  within  her  to 
make  the  effort. 

Circumstances  were  cruelly  against 
her.  She  might  have  battled  with 
the  bankruptcy  ;  with  the  shock  and 
the  disgrace  ;  she  might  have  battled 
with  the  discomforts   of  their  fallen 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


367 


position,  with  the  painful  conscious- 
ness of  the  distress  cast  into  many  a 
home,  with  the  humiliation  dealt  out 
to  herself  as  her  own  special  portion, 
by  the  pious  pharisees  around ;  she 
might  have  battled  with  the  vague 
prospects  of  the  future,  hopeless 
though  they  looked  :  women  equally 
sensitive,  good,  refined  as  Maria,  have 
had  to  contend  with  all  this,  and  have 
survived  it.  But  what  Maria  could 
not  battle  with, — what  had  told  upon 
her  heart  and  her  spirit  worse  than 
all  the  rest, — was  that  dreadful  shock 
touching  her  husband.  She  had  loved 
him  passionately ;  she  had  trusted 
him  wholly  ;  in  her  blind  faith  she  had 
never  cast  so  much  as  a  thought  to 
the  possibility  that  he  could  be  untrue 
to  his  allegiance  :  and  she  had  been 
obliged  to  learn  that — infidelity  forms 
part  of  a  man's  frail  nature.  It  had 
dashed  to  the  ground  the  faith  and 
love  of  years  ;  it  had  outraged  every 
feeling  of  her  heart ;  it  seemed  to 
have  destroyed  her  trust  in  all  man- 
kind. Implicit  faith  !  pure  love  !  trust 
that  she  had  deemed  stronger  than 
death ! — all  had  been  rent  in  one 
moment,  and  the  shock  had  been 
greater  than  was  her  strength  to  en- 
dure. It  was  as  when  one  cuts  a 
cord  asunder.  Any  thing,  any  thing 
but  this  1  She  could  have  borne  with 
George  in  his  crime  and  disgrace,  and 
clung  to  him  all  the  more  because  the 
world  shunned  him  ;  had  he  been  sent 
out  to  Van  Dieman's  Land  the  felon 
that  he  might  have  been,  she  could 
have  crept  by  his  side  and  loved  him 
still.  But  this  was  different.  To  a 
woman  of  refined  feelings,  as  was 
Maria,  loving  trustingly,  it  was  as  the 
very  sharpest  point  of  agony.  It 
must  be  such.  She  had  reposed 
calmly  in  the  belief  that  she  was  all 
in  all  to  him  :  and  she  awoke  to  find 
that  she  was  no  more  to  him  than 
were  others.  They  had  lived,  as  she 
fondly  thought,  in  a  world  of  their 
own,  a  world  of  tenderness,  of  love,  of 
unity  ;  she  and  he  alone;  and  now 
she  learnt  that  his  world  at  least  had 
not  been  so  exclusive.  Apart  from 
more   sacred  feelings  that  were  out- 


raged, it  brought  to  her  most  bitter 
humiliation.  She  seemed  to  have 
sunk  down  to  a  level  she  scarcely 
knew  with  what.  It  was  not  the 
broad  and  bare  infidelity :  at  that  a 
gentlewoman  scarcely  likes  to  glance  ; 
but  it  was  the  fading  away  of  all  the* 
purity  and  romance  which  had  en- 
shrined them  round,  as  with  a  halo, 
they  alone,  apart  from  the  world.  In 
one  unexpected  moment,  as  a  flash  of 
lightning  will  blast  a  forest  tree  and 
strip  it  of  its  foliage,  leaving  it  bare, 
withered,  helpless,  so  had  that  blow- 
rent  the  heart's  life  of  Maria  Godolphin. 
And  she  did  not  get  strong. 

Yes.  Thomas  Godolphin  was  dy- 
ing at  Ashlydyat,  Maria  was  breaking 
her  heart  in  her  lonely  lodgings, 
Prior's  Ash  was  suffering  in  its 
homes  ;  but  where  was  the  cause  of 
it  all, — Mr.  George  ?  Mr.  George  was 
in  London.  Looking  after  something 
to  do,  he  told  Maria.  Probably  he 
was.  He  knew  that  he  had  his  wife 
and  child  upon  his  hands,  and  that 
something  must  be  done,  and  speedily, 
or  the  wolf  would  come  to  the  door. 
Lord  Averil,  good  and  forgiving  as 
was  Thomas  Godolphin,  had  promised 
George  to  try  and  get  him  some  post 
abroad ;  for  George  had  confessed  to 
him  that  he  did  not  care  to  remain  in 
England.  But  the  prospect  was  a 
remote  one  at  best ;  and  it  was 
necessary  that  George  should  be  ex- 
erting himself  while  it  came.  So  he 
was  in  town  looking  after  the  some- 
thing, and  meanwhile  not  by  any 
means  breaking  his  heart  in  regrets, 
or  living  like  an  anchorite  up  in  a 
garret.  Maria  heard  from  him,  and 
of  him.  Once  a  week,  at  least,  he 
wrote  to  her — sometimes  often er — 
affectionate  and  gay  letters.  Loving 
words  to  herself,  kisses  and  stories 
for  Meta,  teasings  and  jokes  for  Mar- 
gery. He  was  friendly  with  the  Ver- 
rall's — which  Prior's  Ash  wondered 
at ;  and  would  now  and  then  be  seen 
riding  in  the  Park  with  Mrs.  Char- 
lotte Pain — the  gossip  of  which  was 
duly  chronicled  to  Maria  by  her  gos- 
siping acquaintance.  Maria  was  silent 
on  the  one  subject,  but  she  did  write 


368 


THE      SHADOW-   OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


a  word  of  remonstrance  to  him  about 
his  friendship  with  Mr.  Yerrall.  It 
was  scarcely  seemly,  she  intimated, 
after  what  people  had  said.  George 
wrote  her  word  back  that  she  knew 
nothing  about  it ;  that  people  had 
taken  up  a  false  notion  altogether. 
Yerrall  was  a  good  fellow  at  heart ; 
what  had  happened  was  not  his  fault, 
but  the  fault  of  certain  men  with 
whom  he,  Yerrall,  had  been  connect- 
ed ;  and  that  Yerrall  was  showing 
himself  a  good  friend  now,  and  he  did 
not  know  what  he  should  do  without 
him. 

"  A  warm  bright  day  like  this,  and 
I  find  you  moping  and  stewing  on 
that  sofa  1  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is, 
Mrs.  George  Godolphin,  you  are  try- 
ing to  make  yourself  into  a  chronic 
invalid." 

Mr.  Snow's  voice,  in  its  serio-comic 
accent,  might  be  heard  at  the  top  of 
the  house  as  he  spoke.  It  was  his 
way. 

"  I  am  better  than  I  was,"  an- 
swered Maria.  "  I  shall  get  well  some 
time." 

"  Some  time  1  It's  to  be  hoped 
you  will.  But  you  are  doing  nothing 
much  yourself  towards  it.  Have  the 
French  left  you  a  cloak  and  bonnet, 
pray  ?" 

Maria  smiled  at  his  joke.  She 
knew  he  alluded  to  the  bankruptcy 
commissioners.  When  Mr.  Snow  was 
a  boy  the  English  and  French  were  at 
war,  and  he  generally  used  the  word 
French  in  a  jesting  way  to  designate 
enemies. 

"  They  left  me  all,"  she  said. 

"  Then  be  so  good  as  to  put  them 
on.  I  don't  terminate  this  visit  until 
I  have  seen  you  out  of  doors." 

To  contend  would  be  more  trouble 
than  to  obey.  She  wrapped  herself 
up  and  went  out  with  Mr.  Snow. 
Her  steps  were  almost  too  feeble  to 
walk  alone. 

"See  the  lovely  day  it  is!  And 
you,  an  invalid,  suffering  from  noth- 
ing but  dumps,  not  to  be  out  in  it  1 
It's  nearly  as  warm  as  September. 
Halloa,  young  lady  1  are  you  planting 
cabbages  I" 


They  had  turned  an  angle  and 
come  upon  Miss  Meta.  She  was 
digging  away  with  a  child's  spade, 
scattering  the  mould  over  the  path  ; 
her  woollen  shawl,  put  on  for  warmth, 
turned  hind  before,  and  her  hat  falleu 
back  with  the  ardor  of  her  labors. 
David  Jekyl,  who  was  digging  to 
purpose  close  by,  was  grumbling  at 
the  scattered  mould  on  bis  clean 
paths. 

"  I'll  sweep  it  up,  David ;  I'll  sweep 
it  up,"  the  young  lady  said. 

"  Fine  sweeping  it  'ud  be  !"  grunted 
David. 

"  I  declare  it's  as  warm  as  summer 
in  this  path !"  cried  Mr  Snow. 
"  Now  mind,  Mrs.  George,  you  shall 
stop  here  for  half  an  hour;  and 
if  you  get  tired  there's  a  bench  to  sit 
upon.  Little  damsel,  if  mamma  goes 
in-doors,  you  tell  me  the  next  time  I 
come.     She  is  to  stay  out." 

"  I'll  not  tell  of  mamma,"  said  Meta. 
throwing  down  her  spade  and  turning 
her  earnest  eyes,  her  rosy  cheeks,  full 
on  Mr.  Snow. 

He  laughed  as  he  walked  away. 
"You  are  to  stay  out  for  the  half- 
hour,  mind  you,  Mrs.  George.  I  in- 
sist upon  it." 

Direct  disobedience  would  not  have 
been  expedient,  if  only  in  the  light 
of  example  to  Meta  ;  but  Maria  had 
rather  been  out  on  any  other  day,  or 
been  ordered  to  any  other  path. 
This  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen 
David  Jekyl  since  the  bank  had  failed, 
and  his  father's  loss  was  very  present 
to  her. 

"  How  are  you,  David  f"  she  in- 
quired. 

"  I  be  among  the  middlin's,"  shortly 
answered  David. 

"  And  vour  father  !  I  heard  he  was 
ill  ?" 

"  So  he  is  ill.  He  couldn't,  be 
worse  r." 

"  I  suppose  the  coming  winter  is 
against  him  ?" 

"  There  be  other  things  again  him 
as  well  as  the  coming  winter,"  re- 
turned David.     "Fretting,  for  one." 

Ah,  how  bitter  it  all  was  !  But 
David  did  not  mean  to  allude  in  any 


THE     SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT. 


369 


offensive  manner  to  the  past,  or  to 
hurt  the  feelings  of  George  Godol- 
phin's  wife.     It  was  his  crusty  way. 

"  Is  Jonathan  better  ?"  she  asked. 

"  He  ain't  of  much  account,  he 
ain't,  since  he  got  that  hurt,"  was 
David's  answer.  "A  doing  about 
three  days'  work  in  a  week  !  It's  to 
be  hoped  times  '11  mend." 

Maria  walked  slowly  to  and  fro  in 
the  sunny  path,  saying  a  word  or 
two  to  David  now  and  then,  but 
choosing  safer  subjects  ;  the  weather, 
the  flowers  under  his  charge,  the 
vegetables  already  nipped  with  frost. 
She  looked  very  ill.  Her  face  thin 
and  white,  her  soft  sweet  eyes  larger 
and  darker  than  was  natural.  Her 
hands  were  wrapped  in  the  cloak  for 
warmth,  and  her  steps  were  unequal. 
Crusty  David  actually  ventured  on  a 
little  bit  of  civility. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  get  about  over 
quick,  ma'am." 

"  Not  very,  David.  But  I  feel  bet- 
ter than  I  did." 

She  sat  down  on  the  bench,  and 
Meta  came  flying  to  her,  spade  in 
hand.  Might  she  plant  a  gooseberry- 
tree,  and  have  all  the  gooseberries  off 
it  next  year  for  herself? 

Maria  stroked  the  child's  hair  from 
her  flushed  face  as  she  answered. 
Meta  flew  off  to  find  the  "  tree,"  and 
Maria  sat  on,  plunged  in  a  train  of 
thought  which  the  question  had  led  to. 
Where  should  they  be  at  the  goose- 
berry season  next  year  ?  In  that 
same  dwelling  ?  Would  George's 
prospects  have  become  more  certain 
then? 

"  Now  then  !  Is  that  the  way  you 
dig  ?" 

The  sharp  words  came  from  Mar- 
gery, who  had  looked  out  at  the 
kitchen  window  and  caught  sight  of 
Miss  Meta  rolling  in  the  mould.  The 
child  jumped  up  laughing,  and  ran 
into  the  house  for  her  skipping-rope. 

"  Have  I  been  out  half  an  hour,  do 
you  think,  David  ?"  Maria  asked,  by- 
and-by. 

"  Near  upon  't,"  said  David,  with- 
out lifting  his  back  or  his  eyes. 

She  rose  to  pursue  her  way  slowly 
23 


in-doors.  She  was  so  fatigued — and 
there  had  been,  to  say,  no  exertion — 
that  she  felt  as  if  she  could  never  stir 
out  again.  The  mere  putting  on  and 
taking  off  her  cloak  was  almost  be- 
yond her.  She  let  it  fall  from  her 
shoulders,  put  off  her  bonnet,  and 
sank  down  in  an  easy-chair. 

From  this  she  was  aroused  by  hear- 
ing the  garden-gate  hastily  open. 
Quick  footsteps  came  up  the  path, 
and  a  manly  voice  said  something  to 
David  Jekyl  in  a  free,  joking  tone. 
She  bounded  up,  her  cheek  flushing  to 
hectic,  her  heart  beating.  Could  it 
be  George  ? 

No,  it  was  her  brother,  Reginald 
Hastings.  He  came  in  with  a  great 
deal  of  unnecessary  noise  and  clatter. 
He  had  arrived  from  London  only 
that  morning,  he  proceeded  to  tell  Ma- 
ria, and  was  going  up  again  by  the 
night-train. 

"  I  say,  Maria,  how  ill  you  look  !" 

Yery  ill  indeed  just  then.  The  ex- 
citement of  -sudden  expectation  had 
faded  away,  leaving  her  whiter  than 
before.  Dark  <  circles  were  round  her 
eyes,  and  her  delicate  hands,  more 
feeble,  more  slender  than  of  yore, 
moved  restlessly  on  her  lap. 

"  I  have  been  very  feverish  the  last 
few  weeks,"  she  said.  "  I  think  I  am 
stronger.  But  I  have  been  out  for  a 
walk  and  am  tired." 

■"  What  did  the  little  shaver  die  of?'' 
asked  Reginald. 

"  Of  convulsions,"  she  answered, 
her  bodily  weariness  too  great  to 
speak  in  any  thing  but  a  tone  of  ap- 
athy. "  Why  are  you  going  up  again 
so  soon  ?     Have  you  got  a  ship  ?" 

Reginald  nodded.  "We  have  or- 
ders to  join  to-morrow  at  twelve. 
She's  the  Mary,  bound  for  China,  six 
hundred  tons.  I  knew  mother  would 
never  forgive  me  if  I  didn't  come  down 
to  say  good-by,  so  I  thought  I'd  have 
two  nights  of  it  in  the  train." 

"Are  you  going  second  officer,  Reg- 
inald ?" 

"  Second  officer  ! — no.  I  have  not 
passed." 

"  Regy  !" 

"  They  are  a  confounded  lot,  that 


370 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


board  !"  broke  out  Mr.  Reginald  in 
an  explosive  tone.  "I  don't  believe 
they  know  their  own  business, — and  as 
to  passing  any  one  without  once  turning 
him,  they  won't  do  it.  I  should  like 
to  know  who  has  the  money  1  You 
pay  your  guinea,  and  you  don't  pass. 
Come  up  again  next  Monday,  they 
say.  Well,  you  do  go  up  again,  as  you 
want  to  pass ;  and  you  pay  another 
half-guinea.  I  did  ;  and  they  turned 
me  again ;  said  I  didn't  know  sea- 
manship. The  great  owls  !  not  know 
seamanship  !  I  !  They  took  me,  I 
expect,  for  one  of  those  dainty  mid- 
dies in  Green's  service  who  walk  the 
deck  in  kid  gloves  all  day.  If 
there's  one  thing  I  have  at  my  fingers' 
ends  it  is  seamanship.  I  could  navi- 
gate a  vessel  all  over  the  world — and 
be  hanged  to  the  idiots  1  You  can 
come  again  next  Monday,  they  said  to 
me.  I  wish  the  Times  would  show 
them  up  !" 

"  Did  you  go  again  ?" 
"  Did  I ! — no,"  fumed  Reginald. 
"  Just  to  add  to  their  pockets  by  an- 
other half-guinea  !  I  hadn't  got  it  to 
give,  Maria.  I  just  flung  the  whole 
lot  over,  and  went  down  to  the  first 
ship  in  the  dock  and  engaged  my- 
self." 

"As  what?"  she  asked. 
"As  A.  B." 

"  A.  B.  ?"  repeated  Maria,  puzzled. 
"  You  don't  mean — surely  you  don't 
mean  before  the  mast  ?" 
"Yes  I  do." 
"  Oh,  Reginald  !" 

"  It  doesn't  make  much  difference," 
cried  Reginald,  in  a  slighting  tone. 
"  The  mates  in  some  of  those  ships 
are  not  much  better  off  than  the  sea- 
men :  you  must  work,  and  the  food's 
pretty  much  the  same,  except  at  the 
skipper's  table.  Let  a  fellow  get  up 
to  be  first  mate,  and  he  is  in  tolerably 
smooth  water ;  but  until  then  he  must 
rough  it.  After  this  voyage  I'll  go 
up  again." 

"  But  you  might  have  shipped  as 
third  mate." 

"  I  might — if  I  had  taken  my  time 
to  find  a  berth.  But  who  was  to  keep 
me  the  while  ?     It  takes  fifteen  shil- 


lings a  week  at  the  Sailors'  Home, 
besides  odds  and  ends  for  yourself 
that  you  can't  do  without — smoke, 
and  things.  I  couldn't  bear  to  ask 
them  for  more  at  home.  Only  think 
how  long  I  have  been  on  shore  this 
time,  Maria.  I  was  knocking  about 
in  London  for  weeks  over  my  naviga- 
tion, preparing  to  pass. — And  for  the 
mummies  to  turn  me,  at  last  !" 

Maria  sighed.  Poor  Reginald's 
gloomy  prospects  were  bringing  her 
pain. 

"  There's  another  thing,  Maria,"  he 
resumed.  "  If  I  had  passed  for  sec- 
ond mate,  I  don't  see  how  I  could  go 
out  as  such.  Where  was  my  outfit  to 
come  from  ?  An  officer — if  he  is  on 
any  thing  of  a  ship — must  be  spruce, 
and  have  proper  toggery.  I  am  quite 
certain  that  to  go  out  as  second  mate 
on  a  good  ship  would  have  cost  me 
twenty  pounds  for  additional  things 
that  I  couldn't  do  without.  You  can't 
get  a  sextant  under  three  pounds,  sec- 
ond-hand, if  it's  worth  having.  You 
know  I  never  could  have  come  upon 
them  for  twenty  pounds  at  home, 
under  their  altered  circumstances. " 

Maria  made  no  reply.  Every  word 
was  going  to  her  heart. 

"  Whereas  in  shipping  as  common 
seaman,  I  don't  want  to  take  much 
more  than  you  might  tie  in  a  hand- 
kerchief. A  fo'castle  fellow  can  shift 
any  way  aboard.  And  there's  one 
advantage,"  ingenuously  added  Regi- 
nald, "  if  I  take  no  traps  out  with  me 
I  can't  lose  them." 

"But  the  discomfort?"  breathea 
Maria. 

"  There's  enough  of  that  any  way 
at  sea.  A  little  more  or  less  of  it  is 
not  of  much  account  in  the  long  run. 
It's  all  in  the  voyage.  I  wish  I  had 
never  been  such  a  fool  as  to  choose 
the  sea.  But  I  did  ;  so  it's  of  no  use 
kicking  at  it  now." 

"  I  wish  you  were  not  going  as  you 
are!"  said  Maria,  earnestly.  "I  wish 
you  had  shipped  as  third  mate !" 

"  When  a  sailor  can't  afford  the  time 
to  ship  as  he  would,  he  must  ship  as 
he  can.  Many  a  hundred  has  done 
the   same  before  me.     To  one  third 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


371 


mate  that's  wanted  in  the  port  of  Lon- 
don, there  are  scores  and  scores  of  A. 
B.  seamen." 

"  What  does  mamma  say  to  it  ?" 

"Well,  you  know  she  can't  afford 
to  be  fastidious  now.  She  cried  a 
bit,  but  I  told  her  I  should  be  all 
right.  Hard  work  and  fo'castle  liv- 
ing; won't  break  bones.  The  parson 
told  me " 

"  Don't,  Reginald  !" 

"  Papa,  then.  He  told  me  it  was  a 
move  in  the  right  direction,  and  if  I 
would  onty  go  on  so,  I  might  make  up 
for  past  short-comings.  I  say,  Isaac 
told  me  to  give  you  his  love." 

"  Did  you  see  much  of  him  ?" 

"No.  On  a  Sunday  now  and  then. 
He  dosen't  much  like  his  new  place. 
They  are  dreadfully  overworked,  he 
says.  It's  quite  a  different  thing  from 
what  the  bank  was  down  here." 

"  Will  he  not  stop  in  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  he'll  stop  in  it.  Glad,  too. 
It  won't  answer  for  him  to  be  doing 
nothing,  when  they  can  hardly  keep 
themselves  at  home  with  the  little  bit 
of  money  screwed  out  from  what's  put 
aside  for  the  Chisholms." 

Reginald  never  meant  to  hurt  her. 
He  but  spoke  so  in  his  thoughtlessness. 
He  rattled  on. 

"  I  saw  George  Godolphin  last  week. 
It  was  on  the  Monday,  the  day  that 
swindling  board  first  turned  me  back.  I 
flung  the  books  anywhere,  and  went 
out  miles,  to  walk  my  passion  off.  I 
got  into  the  Park,  to  Rotten-row.  It's 
precious  empty  at  this  season,  not 
more  than  a  dozen  horses  in  it;  but 
who  should  be  coming  along  but 
George  Godolphin  and  Mrs.  Pain  with 
a  groom  behind  them.  She  was  riding 
that  beautiful  horse  of  hers  that  she 
used  to  cut  a  dash  with  here  in  the 
summer ;  the  one  that  folks  said 
George  gave "  Incautious  Regi- 
nald coughed  down  the  conclusion  of 
his  sentence,  whistled  a  bar  or  two  of 
a  sea-song,  and  then  resumed  : 

"George  was  well  mounted  too." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  them  ?"  asked 
Maria. 

"  Of  course  I  did,"  replied  Regi- 
nald, with  a  slight  surprise.     "  And 


Mrs.  Pain  began  scolding  me  for  not 
having  been  to  see  her  and  the  Ver- 
ralls.  She  made  me  promise  to  go 
down  the  next  evening.  They  live  at. 
a  pretty  place  down  on  the  banks  of 
the  Thames.  You  take  the  rail  at 
Waterloo-bridge. " 

"  Did  you  go  ?" 

"  Well,  I  did,  as  I  had  promised. 
But  I  didn't  care  much.  I  had  been 
at  my  books  all  day  again,  and  in  the 
evening,  quite  late,  I  started.  When 
I  got  there  I  found  it  was  a  tea- 
fight." 

"A  tea-fight !"  echoed  Maria,  rather 
uncertain  what  the  expression  might 
mean. 

"A  regular  tea-fight,"  repeated  Regi- 
nald. "  A  dozen  folks,  ladies  mostly, 
dressed  up  to  the  nines  :  and  there 
was  I  in  my  worn-out  old  sailor's 
jacket.  Charlotte  began  blowing  me 
up  for  not  coming  to  dinner,  and  she 
made  me  go  in  to  the  dining-room  and 
had  it  brought  up  for  me.  Lots  of 
good  things !  I  haven't  tasted  such  a 
dinner  since  I've  been  on  shore.  Ver- 
rall  gave  me  some  champagne." 

"Was  George  there  ?"  inquired  Ma- 
ria, putting  the  question  with  apparent 
indifference. 

"  No,  George  wasn't  there.  Char- 
lotte said  if  she  had  thought  of  it  she'd 
have  invited  Isaac  to  meet  me  :  but 
Isaac  was  shy  of  them,  she  added,  and 
had  never  been  down  once,  though  she 
had  asked  him  several  times.  She's  a 
good-natm-ed  one,  Maria,  is  that  Char- 
lotte Pain." 

"Yes,"  quietly  responded  Maria, 

"  She  told  me  she  knew  how  young 
sailors  got  out  of  money  in  London, 
and  she  shouldn't  think  of  my  stand- 
ing the  cost  of  responding  to  her  in- 
vitation ;  and  she  gave  me  a  sove- 
reign." 

Maria's  cheeks  burnt.  "You  did 
not  take  it,  Reginald  ?" 

"Didn't  1 1  It  was  like  a  godsend. 
You  don't  know  how  scarce  money- 
has  been  with  me.  Things  have 
altered,  you  know,  Maria.  And  Mrs. 
Pain  knows  it,  too,  and  she  has  got 
no  stuck-up  nonsense  about  her.  She 
made  me  promise  to  go  and  see  them 


372 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


when  I  bad  passed.  But  I  have  not 
passed,"  added  Reginald,  by  way  of 
parenthesis.  "  And  she  said  if  T  was 
at  fault  for  a  home  the  next  time  I 
was  looking  out  for  a  ship,  she'd  give 
me  one,  and  be  happy  to  see  me.  And 
I  thought  it  very  kind  of  her,  for  I  am 
sure  she  meant  it.  Oh — by  the  way 
— she  said  she  thought  you'd  let  her 
have  Meta  up  for  a  few  weeks." 

Maria  involuntarily  stretched  out  her 
band, — as  if  Meta  was  there  and  she 
would  clasp  her  and  hold  her  from 
some  threatened  danger.  Reginald 
rose. 

"  You  are  not  going  yet,  Regy  !" 

"  I  must.  I  only  ran  in  for  a  few 
moments.  There's  Grace  to  see  and 
fifty  more  folks,  and  they'll  expect  me 
home  to  dinner.  I'll  say  good-by  to 
Meta  as  I  go  through  the  garden.  I 
saw  she  was  there  ;  but  she  did  not 
see  me." 

He  bent  to  kiss  her.  Maria  held 
his  hand  in  hers.  "  I  shall  be  think- 
ing of  you  always,  Reginald.  If  you 
were  but  going  under  happier  circum- 
stances !" 

"  Never  mind  me,  Maria.  It  will 
be  up-hill  work  with  most  of  us,  I 
suppose,  for  a  time.  I  thought  it  the 
best  thing  I  could  do.  I  couldn't 
bear  to  come  upon  them  for  more 
money  at  home." 

"  Yours  will  be  a  bard  life." 

"A  sailor's  is  that,  at  best.  Don't 
worry  about  me.  I  shall  make  it  out 
somehow.  You  make  haste,  Maria, 
and  get  strong.  I'm  sure  you  look 
sick  enough  to  frighten  folks." 

She  pressed  his  hands  between  hers, 
and  the  tears  were  filling  her  eyes  as 
she  raised  them,  their  expression  one 
wild  yearning.  "  Reginald,  try  and 
do  your  duty,"  she  whispered,  in  an 
imploring  tone.  "  Think  always  of 
Heaven,  and  try  and  work  for  it.  It 
may  be  very  near.  I  have  got  to 
think  of  it  a  great  deal  now." 

"  It's  all  right,  Maria,"  was  the 
careless  and  characteristic  answer. 
"  It's  a  religious  ship  I'm  going  in  this 
time.  We  have  had  to  sign  articles 
for  divine  service  on  board  at  half- 
past  ten  every  Sunday  morning." 


He  kissed  her  several  times,  and 
the  door  closed  upon  him.  As  Maria 
lay  back  in  her  chair,  she  heard  his 
voice  outside  for  some  time  after- 
wards, laughing  and  talking  with 
Meta,  largely  promising  her  a  ship- 
load of  monkeys,  parrots,  and  various 
other  live  wonders. 

In  this  way  or  that,  she  was  con- 
tinually being  reminded  of  the  un- 
happy past  and  their  share  in  it ;  she 
was  perpetually  having  brought  be- 
fore her  its  disastrous  effects  upon 
others.  Poor  Reginald  !  entering 
upon  his  hard  life  !  This  need  not 
have  been,  had  the  means  not  grown 
scarce  at  home.  Maria  loved  him  the 
best  of  all  her  brothers,  and  her  very 
soul  seemed  to  ache  with  its  remorse. 
And  by  some  means  or  other,  she  was, 
as  you  see,  frequently  learning  that 
Mr.  George  was  not  breaking  his 
heart  in  remorse.  The  suffering  in  all 
ways  fell  upon  her. 

And  the  time  went  on,  and  Maria 
Godolphin  grew  no  stronger. 


CHAPTER    LX. 

A    SHADOW    OF   THE   FUTURE. 

The  time  had  gone  on,  and  Maria 
Godolphin,  instead  of  growing  strong- 
er, grew  weaker.  Mr.  Snow  could  do 
nothing  more  than  he  had  done  ;  he 
sent  her  tonic  medicines  still,  and 
called  upon  her  now  and  then,  as  a 
friend  more  than  as  a  doctor.  The 
strain  was  on  the  mind,  he  concluded, 
and  time  alone  would  heal  it. 

But  Maria  was  worse  than  Mr. 
Snow  or  anybody  else  thought.  She 
had  been  always  so  delicate-looking, 
so  gentle,  that  her  wan  face,  her 
sunken  spirits,  attracted  less  attention 
than  they  would  have  done  in  one  of 
a  more  robust  nature.  Nobody  glanced 
at  the  possibility  of  danger.  Mar- 
gery's expressed  opinion,  "  My  mis- 
tress only  wants  rousing,"  was  the  one 
universally  adopted  :  and  there  may 
have  been  truth  in  it. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


373 


All  question  of  Maria's  going  out- 
of-doors  was  over  now.  She  was 
really  not  equal  to  it.  She  would  lie 
for  hours  together  on  her  sofa,  the 
little  child  Meta  gathered  in  her  arms. 
Meta  appeared  to  have  changed  her 
very  nature  :  instead  of  dancing  about 
incessantly,  running  into  every  mis- 
chief, she  was  content  to  nestle  to  her 
mother's  bosom  and  listen  to  her 
whispered  words,  as  if  some  fore- 
shadowing were  on  her  spirit  that  she 
might  not  long  have  a  mother  to  nes- 
tleto. 

You  must  not  think  that  Maria  con- 
formed to  the  usages  of  an  invalid. 
She  was  up  before  breakfast  in  a  morn- 
ing, she  did  not  go  to  bed  until  the 
usual  hour  at  night,  and  she  sat  down 
to  the  customary  meals  with  Meta. 
She  has  risen  from  the  breakfast-table 
now,  on  this  fine  morning,  not  at  all 
cold  for  the  late  autumn,  and  Margery 
has  carried  away  the  breakfast-things, 
and  has  told  Miss  Meta,  that  if  she'll 
come  out  as  soon  as  her  mamma  has 
read  to  her  and  have  her  things  put 
on,  she  can  go  and  play  in  the  garden. 

But  when  the  little  Bible-story  was 
over,  her  mamma  lay  down  on  the 
sofa,  and  Meta  appeared  inclined  to 
do  the  same.  She  hustled  on  to  it 
and  lay  down  too,  and  kissed  her 
mamma's  face,  so  pretty  still,  and  be- 
gan to  chatter.  It  was  a  charming 
day,  the  sun  shining  on  the  few  late 
flowers,  and  the  sky  blue  and  bright. 

"  Did  you  hear  Margery  say  you 
might  go  out  and  play,  darling  ?  See 
how  fine  it  is." 

"  There's  nothing  to  play  with," 
said  Meta. 

"  There  are  many  things,-  dear.  Your 
skipping-rope,  and  hoop,  and " 

"  I'm  tired  of  them,"  interposed 
Meta.  "  Mamma,  I  wish  you'd  come 
out  and  play  at  something  with  me." 

"  I  couldn't  run,  dear.  I  am  not 
stronsr  enough." 

"  When  shall  you  be  strong  enough? 
How  long  will  it  be  before  you  get 
well  ?" 

Maria  did  not  answer.  She  lay  with 
her  eyes  fixed  outwards,  her  arm 
clasped  round  the  child.    "  Meta  darl- 


ing, I — I — am  not  sure  that  I  shall 
get  well.  I  begin  to  think  that  I  shall 
never  go  out  with  you  again." 

Meta  did  not  answer.  She  was 
looking  out  also,  her  eyes  staring 
straight  up  to  the  blue  sky. 

"  Meta  darling,"  resumed  Maria,  in 
a  low  tone,  "  you  had  two  little  sisters 
once,  and  I  cried  out  when  they  died, 
but  I  am  glad  now  that  they  went. 
They  are  in  heaven." 

Meta  looked  up  more  fixedly,  and 
pointed  with  her  finger.  "  Up  in  the 
blue  sky." 

"  Yes,  up  in  heaven.  Meta,  I  think 
I  am  going  to  them.  It  is  a  better 
world  than  this." 

"And  me  too  ?"  quickly  cried  Meta. 

Marina  laid  her  hand  upon  her  bosom 
to  press  down  the  rising  emotion. 
"Meta,  Meta,  if  I  might  but  take  you 
with  me  !"  she  breathed,  straining  the 
child  to  her  in  an  agony.  The  pros- 
pect of  parting,  which  Maria  had  be- 
gun to  look  at,  was  indeed  hard  to 
bear. 

"You  can't  go  and  leave  me,"  cried 
Meta,  in  alarm.  "Who'd  take  care 
of  me,  mamma  ?  Mamma  !  do  you 
mean  that  you  are  going  to  die  ?" 

Meta  burst  into  tears  ;  Maria  cried 
with  her.  Oh,  reader,  reader  !  do 
you  know  what  it  is,  this  parting  be- 
tween mother  and  child  ?  To  lay  a 
child  in  the  grave  is  bitter  grief;  but 
to  leave  it  to  the  mercy  of  the  world  ; 
• — there  is  nothing  like  unto  it  in  hu- 
man anguish. 

Maria's  arms  were  entwined  around 
the  little  girl,  clasping  her  nervously, 
as  if  that  might  prevent  the  future 
parting  ;  the  soft,  rounded  cheek  was 
pressed  to  hers,  the  golden  curls  lay 
around. 

"  Only  for  a  little  while,  Meta.  If 
I  go  first,  it  will  be  but  for  a  little 

while.      You "     Maria  stopped  ; 

her  emotion  had  to  be  choked  down. 

"  It  is  a  happier  world  than  this, 
Meta,"  she  resumed,  overmastering  it. 
"  There  will  be  no  pain  there ',  no 
sickness,  no  sorrow.  This  world 
seems  made  up  of  sorrow,  Meta.  Oh, 
child  !  but  for  God's  love  in  holding 
out  to  our  view  that  other  one,  we 


374 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


could  never  bear  this  when  trouble 
comes.  God  took  your  little  sisters  and 
brothers  from  it ;  and — I  think — He  is 
taking  me." 

Meta  turned  her  face  downwards, 
and  laid  hold  of  her  mother  with  a 
frightened  movement,  her  little  fingers 
clasping  the  thin  arms  to  pain. 

"  The  winter  is  coming  on  here,  my 
child,  and  the  trees  will  soon  be  bare  ; 
the  snow  will  cover  the  earth,  and  we 
must  wrap  ourselves  up  from  it.  But 
in  that  other  world  there  will  be  no 
winter  ;  no  cold  to  chill  us  ;  no  sultry 
summer  heat  to  exhaust  us.  It  will 
be  a  pleasant  world,  Meta,  and  God 
will  love  us." 

Meta  was  crying  silently.  "  Let 
me  go,  too,  mamma." 

"  In  a  little  while,  darling.  If  God 
calls  me  first,  it  is  His  will,"  she  con- 
tinued, the  sobs  breaking  from  her 
aching  heart.  "  I  shall  ask  Him  to 
take  care  of  you  after  I  am  gone,  and 
to  bring  you  to  me  in  time.  I  am  ask- 
ing Him  always." 

"  Who'll  be  my  mamma  then  ?"  cried 
Meta,  lifting  her  head  in  a  bustle,  as 
the  thought  occurred  to  her. 

More  pain.  Maria  choked  it  down, 
and  stroked  the  golden  curls. 

"  You  will  have  no  mamma  then  in 
this  world — only  papa." 

Meta  paused.  "  Will  he  take  me 
to  London,  to  Mrs.  Pain  ?" 

The  startled  shock  that  these  simple 
words  brought  to  Maria  cannot  well 
be  pictured  :  her  breath  stood  still, 
her  heart  beat  wildly.  "  Why  do  you 
ask  that  ?"  she  said,  her  tears  suddenly 
dried. 

Meta  had  to  collect  her  childish 
thoughts  to  tell  why.  "  When  you 
were  in  bed  ill,  and  Mrs.  Pain  wrote 
me  that  pretty  letter,  she  said  if  papa 
would  take  me  up  to  London,  she'd 
be  my  mamma  for  a  little  while,  in 
place  of  you." 

The  spell  was  broken.  The  happy 
visions  of  heaven,  of  love,  had  been 
displaced  for  Maria.  She  lay  quite 
silent,  and  in  the  stillness  the  bells  of 
All  Souls'  Church  were  heard  to  strike 
out  a  joyous  peal  on  the  morning  air. 
Meta  clapped  her  hands  and  lifted  her 


face,  radiant  now  with  glee.  Moods 
require  not  time  to  change  in  child- 
hood :  now  sunshine,  now  rain.  Mar- 
gery opened  the  door. 

"  Do  you  hear  'em,  ma'am  ? — the 
bell  for  Miss  Cecil.  They  be  as  glad 
as  the  day.  I  said  she'd  have  it  fine 
last  night,  when  I  found  the  wind  had 
changed.  I  can't  a-bear  to  hear  wed- 
ding-bells ring  out  on  a  wet  day  ;  the 
two  don't  accord.  Eh  me  !  why  here's 
Miss  Rose  a-coming  in." 

Rose  Hastings  was  walking  up  the 
garden-path  with  a  quick  step,  nod- 
ding at  Meta  as  she  came  along.  That 
young  lady  slipped  off  the  sofa,  and 
ran  out  to  meet  her,  and  Maria  rose 
up  from  her  sick  position,  and  strove 
to  look  her  best. 

"  I  have  come  for  Meta,"  said  Rose, 
as  she  entered.  "  Mamma  thinks  she 
would  like  to  see  the  wedding.  Will 
you  let  her  come,  Maria  ?" 

Maria  hesitated.  "In  the  church, 
do  you  mean  ?  Suppose  she  should 
not  be  good  ?" 

"  I  will  be  good,"  said  Meta,  in  a 
high  state  of  delight  at  the  prospect. 
"  Mamma,  I'll  be  very  good." 

She  went  with  Margery  to  be 
dressed.  Rose  turned  to  her  sister. 
"Are  you  pretty  well  this  morning, 
Maria  ?" 

"  Pretty  well,  Rose.  I  cannot  boast 
of  much  strength  yet." 

"  I  wish  you  would  return  with  me 
and  Meta.  Mamma  told  me  to  try 
and  bring  you.  To  spend  the  day 
with  us  will  be  a  change,  and  you  need 
not  go  near  the  church." 

"  I  don't  feel  equal  to  it,  Rose.  I 
should  not  have  the  strength  to  walk. 
Tell  mamma  so,  with  my  dear  love." 

"  Maria,  I  wonder  they  did  not  ask 
you  to  the  wedding." 

"  Do  you  ?  It  is  a  foolish  wonder, 
Rose.  I  am  not  sufficiently  well  for 
weddings,  even  had  other  circum- 
stances been  favorable.  Cecil  was 
here  yesterday,  and  sat  an  hour  with 
me." 

"  Only  fancy  ! — she  is  to  be  married 
in  a  bonnet !"  exclaimed  Rose,  with 
indignation.  "A  bonnet  and  a  gray 
dress.     I   wonder   Lord   Averil  con- 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


375 


sented  to  it !  I  should  hardly  call  it 
a  wedding.  A  bonnet ! — and  no  break- 
fast ! — and  Bessy  Godolphin  and 
Lord  Averil's  sister,  who  is  older,  if 
any  thing,  than  Bessy,  for  the  brides- 
maids !" 

"  Would  a  gayer  wedding  have 
been  consistent — under  the  circum- 
stances ?" 

Rose  knitted  her  brow  at  the  words, 
but  smoothed  her  hand  over  it,  re- 
membering wTho  was  looking  at  her. 
"  I — I  do  not  see,  Maria,"  she  hesi- 
tatingly said,  "  that  what  has  past 
need  throw  its  shade  on  the  wedding 
of  Cecil  and  Lord  Averil." 

"And  the  state  of  Thomas  Godol- 
phin." 

"Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure  !  I  was  not 
thinking  of  him.  But  it  is  very  dread- 
ful to  be  married  without  a  wreath  and 
a  vail,  and  with  only  a  couple  of  old 
bridesmaids." 

"And  by  only  one  clergyman,"  add- 
ed Maria,  her  lips  parting  with  a  smile. 
"  Do  you  think  the  marriage  will  stand 
good,  Rose  ?" 

Rose  felt  inclined  to  resent  the  joke. 
The  illusions  of  the  wedding-day  were, 
in  her  eyes,  absolutely  necessary  to 
the  marriage-ceremony.  Meta  came 
in,  ready ;  as  full  of  bustling  excite- 
ment as  ever  ;  eager  to  be  gone.  She 
kissed  her  mamma  in  careless  haste, 
and  was  impatient  because  Rose  lin- 
gered to  say  a  word.  Maria  watched 
her  down  the  path, — her  face  and  eyes 
sparkling,  her  feet  dancing  with 
eagerness,  her  laughter  ringing  in  the 
air. 

"  She  has  forgotten  already  her 
tears  for  the  parting  that  must  come," 
murmured  Maria.  "  How  soon,  I 
wonder,  after  I  shall  be  gone,  will  she 
forget  me  ?" 

She  laid  her  temples  lrghtly  against 
the  window-frame,  as  she  looked 
dreamily  at  the  blue  sky  ;  as  she  list- 
ened dreamily  to  the  sweet  bells  that 
rang  out  so  merrily  in  the  ears  of  Pri- 
or's Ash. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

NEARER  AND   NEARER   FOR   THOMAS  GO- 
DOLPHIN. 

Prior's  Ash  lingered  at  its  doors 
and  its  windows,  curious  to  witnes- 
the  outer  signs  of  Cecilia  Godolphin',- 
wedding.  The  arrangements  for  ir 
were  to  them  more  a  matter  of  specu- 
lation than  of  certainty,  since  various 
rumors  had  gone  afloat,  and  were 
eagerly  caught  up,  although  of  the 
most  contradictory  character.  All  that 
appeared  certain  as  yet  was  that  the 
day  was  charming  and  the  bells  were 
ringing. 

How  the  beadle  kept  the  gates  that 
day,  he  alone  new.  That  staff  of  his 
was  brought  a  great  deal  more  into 
requisition  than  was  liked  by  the  sea 
of  noses  pressing  there.  And  when 
the  first  carriage  came,  the  excitement 
in  the  street  was  great. 

The  first  carriage  !  There  were  but 
two  ;  that  and  another.  Prior's  Ash 
turned  up  its  disappointed  nose,  and 
wondered,  with  Rose  Hastings,  what 
the  world  was  coming  to. 

It  was  a  chariot  drawn  by  four 
horses.  The  livery  of  the  postilions 
and  the  coronet  on  the  panels  pro- 
claimed it  to  be  Lord  Averil's.  He 
sat  inside  it  with  Thomas  Godolphin. 
The  carriage  following  it  was  Lady 
Godolphin's  and  appeared  to  contain 
only  ladies,  all  wearing  bonnets  and 
colored  gowns.  The  exasperated  ga- 
zers, who  had  bargained  for  some- 
thing very  different,  set  up  a  half 
groan. 

They  set  up  a  whole  one,  those 
round  the  gates,  when  Lord  Averil 
and  his  friend  alighted.  But  the 
groan  was  not  one  of  exasperation,  or 
of  anger.  It  was  a  low  murmur  of 
sorrow,  of  sympathy,  and  it  was  called 
forth  by  the  appearance  of  Thomas 
Godolphin.  It  was  some  little  time 
now  since  Thomas  Godolphin  had 
been  seen  in  public,  and  the  change  in 
him  was  startling.  He  walked  for- 
ward, leaning  on  the  arm  of  Lord 
Averil,  lifting  his  hat  to  the  greeting 
that  was  breathed  around  ;  a  greeting 


376 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


of  sorrow  meant,  as  he  knew,  not  for 
the  peer,  but  for  him,  and  his  fading 
life.  The  few  scanty  hairs  stood  out 
to  their  view  as  he  uncovered  his  head, 
and  the  ravages  of  the  disease  that 
was  killing  him  were  all  too  conspicu- 
ous on  his  wasted  features. 

"  God  bless  him.  He's  very  nigh 
upon  the  grave." 

Who  said  it  of  the  crowd,  Thomas 
Godolphin  could  not  tell,  but  the 
words  and  their  accent,  full  of  rude 
sympathy,  came  distinctly  upon  his 
ear.  He  quitted  the  viscount's  arm, 
turned  to  them,  and  raised  his  hands 
with  a  solemn  meaning. 

"  God  bless  you  all,  my  friends.  I 
am  indeed  near  upon  the  grave. 
►Should  there  be  any  here  who  have 
suffered  injury  through  me,  let  them 
forgive  me  for  it.  It  was  not  inten- 
tionally done,  and  I  may  almost  say 
that  I  am  expiating  it  with  my  life. 
Mav  God  bless  vou  all,  here  and  here- 
after !" 

Something  like  a  sob  burst  from 
the  astonished  crowd.  But  that  he 
had  hastened  on  with  Lord  Averil, 
they  might  have  fallen  on  their  knees 
and  clung  to  him  in  their  flood-tide  of 
respect  and  love. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Hastings  stood 
in  his  surplice  at  the  altar.  He,  too, 
was  changed.  The  keen,  vigorous, 
healthy  man  had  now  a  gray,  worn 
look.  He  could  not  forget  the  blow; 
minister  though  he  was,  he  could  not 
forgive  George  Godulphin.  He  was 
not  quite  sure  that  he  forgave  Thomas 
for  not  having  looked  more  closely 
after  his  brother  and  the  bank  gene- 
rally :  had  he  done  so,  the  calamity 
might  never  have  occurred.  Every 
hour  of  the  day  reminded  Mr.  Hast- 
ings of  his  loss,  in  the  discomforts 
which  had  necessarily  fallen  on  his 
home,  in  the  position  of  his  daughter 
Maria.  George  Godolphin  had  never 
been  a  favorite  of  his  :  he  had  tried 
to  like  him  in  vain.  It  was  strange 
ihat  where  so  many  owned  to  the  fas- 
cination of  George  Godolphin,  the 
rector  of  All  Souls'  and  his  daughter 
<  i  race  had  held  aloof, — had  disliked 
him.     Could  it  have  been  some  ntvs- 


terious  friendly  warning  of  future  ill, 
which  would  make  itself  heard  in  the 
heart  of  Mr.  Hastings  and  whisper 
him  not  to  give  away  Maria  ?  At 
any  rate,  it  had  not  answered.  He 
had  given  her,  and  he  had  striven  to 
like  her  husband  afterwards  :  but  he 
had  not  fully  succeeded  :  he  never 
would  have  succeeded  without  this 
last  blow,  which  had  drawn  him  un- 
der its  wheels  with  so  many  others. 
The  rector  of  All  Souls'  was  a  man 
of  severe  judgment,  and  rumor  had 
made  too  free  with  gay  George's  name 
for  him  to  find  favor  with  the  rector. 

He  stood  there,  waiting  for  the  wed- 
ding-party. A  few  ladies  were  in  the 
church  in  their  pews,  and  Rose  Hast- 
ings sat  there  with  Meta.  All  eyes 
were  turned  to  the  door  in  expecta- 
tion :  but  when  the  group  entered 
there  was  not  much  to  see.  No  cor- 
tege, no  marshaling,  no  vails,  no 
plumes,  no  any  thing  !  But  that  Rose 
was  prepared  for  it,  she  would  have 
shrieked  out  with  indignation. 

Lord  Averil  was  the  first  to  enter. 
Cecilia  Godolphin  came  next  with 
Thomas.  She  wore  a  light-gra3r  silk 
robe,  and  a  plain,  white  bonnet,  trim- 
med inside  with  orange-blossoms. 
The  Honorable  Miss  Averil  and  Bessy 
Godolphin  followed, — old  in  Rose 
Hastings's  opinion,  certainly  old  for 
bridesmaids, — their  silk  dresses  of  a 
darker  shade  of  gray,  and  their  white 
bonnets  without  the  orange-blossoms. 
Lady  Godolphin  was  next,  more  re- 
splendent than  an}%  in  a  lemon  bro- 
caded dress  that  stood  on  end  with 
richness. 

Did  the  recollection  of  the  last  wed- 
ding-service he  had  performed  for  a 
Godolphin  cause  the  rector  of  All 
Souls'  voice  to  be  subdued  now  as  he 
read  ?  Seven  years  ago  he  had  stood 
there  as  he  was  standing  to-day, 
George  and  Maria  before  him.  How 
had  that  promising  union  ended  ? 
And  for  the  keeping  of  his  sworn 
vows,  George  best  knew  what  he  had 
kept  and  what  he  had  broken.  The 
rector  was  thinking  of  that  past  cere- 
mony now. 

This  one  was  over.     The  promises 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT 


377 


were  made,  the  register  signed,  and 
Lord  Averil  was  leading  Cecilia  from 
the  church,  when  the  rector  stepped 
before  them  and  took  her  hand. 

"I  pray  God  that  your  union  may 
be  more  happy  than  some  others  have 
been,"  he  said.  "  That,  in  a  great 
degree,  rests  with  you,  Lord  Averil. 
Take  care  of  her." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  the 
viscount  grasped  his  hand  warmly,  "I 
will;  1  will." 

"Let  me  bless  you  both,  Averil !" 
broke  in  the  quiet  voice  of  Thomas 
Godolphin.  "  It  may  be  that  I  shall 
not  see  you  again  to  do  it." 

"  Oh,  but  we  shall  meet  again  ;  you 
must  not  die  yet,"  exclaimed  Lord 
Averil,  with  feverish  eagerness.  "  My 
friend,  I  would  rather  part  with  the 
whole  world,  save  Cecil,  than  with 
you." 

Their  hands  lingered  together — 
and  separated.  Not  very  long  now 
would  Thomas  keep  them  out  of 
Ashlydyat. 

The  beadle  was  nobbing  his  stick 
on  the  heads  and  noses  with  great 
force,  and  the  excited  crowd  pushed 
and  danced  round  that  traveling  car- 
riage, but  they  made  their  way  to  it. 
The  placing  in  Cecil  and  the  taking 
his  place  beside  her  seemed  to  be  but 
the  work  of  a  moment,  so  quickly 
did  it  pass,  and  Lord  Averil,  a 
pleasant  smile  upon  his  face,  bowed 
to  the  shouts  on  either  side  as  the 
carriage  threaded  its  way  through  the 
throng.  Not  until  it  had  got  into 
clear  ground  did  the  postilions  put 
their  horses  to  a  canter,  and  the 
bridegroom  and  the  bride  were  fairly 
away  on  their  bridal  tour. 

There  was  more  ceremony  needed 
to  place  the  ladies  in  the  other  car- 
riage. Lady  Godolphin's  skirts,  in 
their  extensive  richness,  took  five 
minutes  to  arrange  of  themselves,  ere 
a  space  could  be  found  for  Thomas 
Godolphin  beside  her.  The  footman 
held  the  door  for  him. 

"  No,"  he  said  ;  "  I  will  follow  you 
presently." 

Bessy  felt  startled.     "  You  will  not 


attempt  to  walk  ?"  she  said,  leaning 
forward. 

He  smiled  at  her, — at  the  utter  fu- 
tility of  such  an  attempt  now.  The 
time  for  walking  to  Ashlydyat  was 
past  for  Thomas  Godolphin. 

"  A  fly-  is  coming  for  me,  Bessy. 
I  have  a  call  or  two  to  make." 

Lady  Godolphin's  carriage  drove 
away,  and  Thomas  turned  into  the 
rectory.  Mrs.  Hastings,  gray,  worn, 
old,  ten  years  older  than  she  had  been 
six  months  before,  came  forward  to 
greet  him,  commiseration  in  every  line 
of  her  countenance. 

"  I  thought  I  would  say  good-by 
to  you,"  he  said,  as  he  held  her  hands 
in  his.  "  It  will  be  my  only  oppor- 
tunity. I  expect  this  is  my  last  quit- 
ting of  Ashlydyat." 

"  Say  good-by  ?■"  she  faltered.  "  Are 
you — are  you — so  near " 

"  Look  at  me,"  quietly  said  Thomas, 
answering  her  unfinished  sentence. 

But  there  was  an  interruption. 
Bustling  little  feet  and  a  busy  little 
tongue  came  upon  them.  Miss  Meta 
had  broken  from  Rose  and  run  in 
alone,  throwing  her  straw-hat  aside 
as  she  entered. 

"  Uncle  Thomas  !  Uncle  Thomas  ! 
I  saw  you  at  the  wedding,  Uncle 
Thomas." 

He  sat  down  and  took  the  child 
on  his  knee.  "And  I  saw  Meta,"  he 
answered.  "  How  is  mamma  ?  I  am 
going  to  see  her  presently." 

•  "  Mamma's  not  well,"  said  Meta, 
shaking  her  head.  "Mamma  cries 
often.  She  was  crying  this  morning. 
Uncle  Thomas," — lowering  her  voice 
and  speaking  slowly, — "mamma  says 
she's  going  to  heaven." 

There  was  a  startled  pause.  Thomas 
broke  it  by  laying  his  hand  upon  the 
golden-haired  head. 

"  I  trust  we  are  all  going  there, 
Meta, — a  little  earlier  or  a  little  later, 
as  God  shall  will.  It  will  not  much 
matter  when." 

A  few  minutes'  conversation,  and 
Thomas  Godolphin  went  out  to  the 
fly  which  waited  for  him.  Bexiey, 
who  was  with  it,  helped  him  in. 


378 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


"Mrs.  George  Godolphin's." 

The  attentive  old  retainer — older 
by  twenty  years  than  Thomas,  but 
younger  in  health  and  vigor — care- 
fully assisted  his  master  up  the  gar- 
den-path. Maria  saw  the  approach 
from  the  window.  Why  it  was  she 
knew  not,  but  she  was  feeling  un- 
usually ill  that  day, — scarcely  able  to 
rise  to  a  sitting  position  on  the  sofa. 
Thomas  was  shocked  at  the  alteration 
in  her,  and  involuntarily  thought  of 
the  child's  words,  "  Mamma  says  she's 
going  to  heaven." 

"  I  thought  I  should  like  to  say 
farewell  to  you,  Maria,"  he  said,  as  he 
drew  a  chair  near  her.  "I  did  not 
expect  to  find  you  looking  so  ill." 

She  had  burst  into  tears.  Whether 
it  was  the  unusual  depression  of  her 
own  spirits,  or  his  wan  face,  emotion 
overcame  her. 

"  It  has  been  too  much  for  both  of 
us,"  he  murmured,  holding  her  hands. 
"  We  must  forgive  him,  Maria.  It 
was  done  in  carelessness,  perhaps,  but 
not  in  willfulness." 

"No,  no;  not  in  willfulness,"  she 
whispered.  "  He  is  my  husband  and 
your  bi'other  still." 

There  was  a  lull  in  their  emotion. 
Thomas  gave  her  some  of  the  details 
of  the  wedding,  and  she  was  beguiled 
to  ask  different  questions.  "Do  you 
know  what  George  is  likely  to  do  ?" 
he  suddenly  incmired. 

"  No  ;  I  wish  I  did  know.  He 
talks  much  of  this  promise  of  Lord 
Averil's,  and  says  he  is  looking  out 
for  something  to  do  in  the  mean 
while.  The  uncertainty  troubles  me 
greatly.    We  cannot  live  on  nothing." 

"  Has  he  sent  you  any  money 
lately  ?"  asked  Thomas,  in  a  voice  of 
hesitation. 

Maria's  face  flushed.  "  He  gave 
me  ten  pounds  when  he  was  at  home 
last,  and  it  is  not  spent  yet." 

Thomas  leaned  his  head  on  his 
hand  musingly.  "  I  wonder  where 
he  gets  it  ?" 

Maria  was  silent.  To  say  "  I  think 
he  is  helped  by  Mr.  Verrall,"  might 
only  have  given  Thomas  fresh  pain. 
"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  come  to 


see  me,"  she  said,  changing  the  sub- 
ject. "  I  feel  it  dull  here  all  day 
alone." 

"  Why  do  you  not  come  to  Ash- 
lydyat  sometimes  ?  You  know  we 
should  be  glad  to  see  you." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  can't  go 
out,  Thomas.  And  indeed  I  am  not 
strong  enough  for  it  now." 

"  But  Maria,  you  should  not  give 
way  to  this  grief, — this  weakness. 
You  are  young  ;  you  have  no  incura- 
ble complaint  as  I  have." 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  sighed.  "  At 
times  I  feel  as  though  I  should  never 
be  well  again.  I — I — have  been  so 
reproached,  Thomas  ;  so  much  blame 
has  been  cast  to  me  by  all  people  ;  it 
has  been  as  if  /  had  made  away  with 
their  money  ;  and  you  know  that  I 
was  as  innocent  as  they  were.  And 
there  have  been  other  things.  If — 
if " 

"If  what  ?"  asked  Thomas,  leaning 
over  her. 

She  was  sitting  back  upon  the  sofa, 
her  fair  young  face  wan  and  colorless, 
her  delicate  hands  clasped  together, 
as  in  apathy.  "If  it  were  not  for 
leaving  Meta,  I  should  be  glad  to 
die." 

"  Hush,  Maria  !  Rather  say  you 
are  glad  to  live  for  her  sake.  George 
may,  by  some  means  or  other,  become 
prosperous  again,  and  you  may  once 
more  have  a  happy  home.  You  are 
young,  I  say.  You  must  bear  up 
against  this  weakness." 

"  If  I  could  but  pay  all  we  owe  , 
our  personal  debts  !"  she  whispered, 
unconsciously  giving  utterance  to  the 
vain  longing  that  was  ever  working 
in  her  heart.  "  Papa's  nine  thousand 
pounds — and  Mrs.  Bond's  ten  pounds 
— and  the  Jekyls — and  the  trades- 
people !" 

"  If  /  could  but  have  paid  !"  he  re- 
joined, in  a  voice  broken  by  emotion. 
"If  I  could — if  I  could — I  should 
have  gone  easier  to  the  grave.  Ma- 
ria, we  have  a  God,  remember,  who 
sees  all  our  pangs,  all  our  bitter  sor- 
row :  but  for  Him,  and  my  trust  in 
Him,  I  should  have  died  long  ago  of 
the  pain.     Things  have  latterly  been 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


379 


soothed  to  me  in  a  most  wonderful 
manner.  I  seem  to  feel  that  I  can 
leave  all  the  sorrow  I  have  caused  to 
Him,  trusting  to  Him  to  shed  down 
the  recompense.  We  never  know 
until  our  need  of  it  comes,  what  His 
mercy  is. " 

Maria  covered  her  face  with  her 
hand.     Thomas  rose. 

"  You  are  not  going  ?"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Yes,  for  I  must  hasten  home. 
This  has  been  a  morning  of  exertion, 
and  I  find  there's  no  strength  left  in 
me.     God  bless  you,  Maria." 

"Are  we  never  to  meet  again?" 
she  asked,  as  he  held  her  thin  hands 
in  his,  and  she  looked  up  at  him 
through  her  blinding  tears. 

"  I  hope  we  shall  meet  again,  Ma- 
ria, and  be  together  forever  and  for- 
ever. The  threshold  of  the  next  world 
is  opening  to  me :  this  is  closing. 
Pare  you  well,  child ;  fare  you  well." 

Bexley  came  to  him  as  he  opened 
the  parlor-door.  Thomas  asked  for 
Margery :  he  would  have  said  a  kind 
word  to  her.  But  Margery  had  gone 
out. 

Maria  stood  at  the  window,  and 
watched  him  with  her  wet  eyes  as  he 
walked  down  the  path  to  the  fly, 
supported  by  Bexley.  The  old  man 
closed  the  door  on  the  master  and 
took  his  seat  by  the  driver.  Thomas 
looked  forth  as  they  drove  away,  and 
smiled  a  last  farewell. 

A  farewell  in  the  deepest  sense  of 
the  word.  It  was  the  last  look,  the 
last  smile,  that  Maria  would  receive 
in  this  life  from  Thomas  Godolphin. 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

A   PEACEFUL    HOUR    IN    THE    PORCH    OF 
ASHLYDYAT. 

In  the  old  porch  at  Ashlydyat  of 
which  you  have  heard  so  much,  sat 
Thomas  Godolphin.  An  invalid-chair 
had  been  placed  there,  and  he  lay 
back  on  its  pillows  in  the  afternoon 


sun  of  the  late  autumn.  A  warm, 
sunny  autumn,  had  it  been ;  a  real 
"Ete  de  St.  Martin."  He  was  feel- 
ing wondrously  well ;  almost,  but  for 
his  ever-present  feeling  of  weakness, 
quite  well.  His  fatigue  of  the  previ- 
ous day — that  of  Cecil's  wedding — had 
left  no  permanent  effects  upon  him,  and 
had  he  not  known  thoroughly  his  own 
hopeless  state,  he  might  have  fancied 
this  afternoon  that  he  was  about  to 
get  well  all  one  day. 

Not  in  his  looks.  Pale,  wan,  ghastly 
were  they ;  the  shadow  of  the  grim, 
implacable  visitor  that  was  so  soon 
to  come  was  already  on  them :  but  the 
face  in  its  calm  stillness  told  of  inef- 
fable peace :  the  brunt  of  the  storm 
had  passed. 

The  white  walls  of  Lady  Godol- 
phin's  Polly  glittered  brightly  in  the 
distance  ;  the  dark-blue  sky  was  seen 
through  the  branches  of  the  trees, 
growing  bare  and  more  bare  against 
the  coming  winter ;  the  warm  rays  of 
the  sun  fell  on  Thomas  Godolphin. 
In  his  hand  he  held  a  book  from  which 
others  than  Thomas  Godolphin  have 
derived  courage  and  consolation, — 
"God  is  love."  He  was  reading  at 
that  moment  of  the  great  love  of  God 
towards  those  who  strive,  as  he  had 
done,  to  live  for  Him  ;  he  looked  up, 
repeating  the  sentence  :  "  He  loves 
them  in  death  and  will  love  them 
through  the  never-ending  ages  of  the 
world  to  come."  Just  then  his  eyes 
fell  on  the  figure  of  Margery,  who 
was  advancing  towards  Ashlydyat. 
Thomas  closed  his  book,  and  held  out 
his  hand. 

"  My  mistress  told  me  you'd  have 
said  Good-by  to  me  yesterday,  Mr. 
Thomas,  and  it  was  just  my  ill-luck  to 
be  out.  I'd  gone  to  take  the  child's 
shoes  to  be  mended, — she  wears  'em 
out  fast,  she  does.  But  you  are  not 
going  to  leave  us  yet,  sir  ?" 

"  I  know  not  how  soon  it  may  be, 
Margery :  very  long  it  cannot  be.  Sit 
down." 

She  stood  yet,  however,  looking  at 
him,  disregarding  the  bench  to  which 
he  had  pointed, — stood  with  a  saddened 
expression  and  compressed  lips.    Mar- 


380 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


gery's  was  an  experienced  eye,  and  it 
may  be  that  she  saw  the  shadow  which 
had  taken  up  its  abode  in  his  face. 

"  You  be  going  to  see  my  old  mas- 
ter and  mistress,  sir,"  she  burst  forth, 
dashing  some  rebellious  moisture  from 
her  eyes.  "  Mr.  Thomas,  do  you 
recollect  it  ? — my  poor  mistress  sat 
here  in  this  porch  the  very  day  she 
died." 

"  I  remember  it  well,  Margery.  I 
am  dying  quietly,  thank  God,  as  my 
mother  died." 

"  And  what  a  blessing  it  is  when 
folks  can  die  quietly,  with  their  con- 
science and  all  about  'em  at  peace  !" 
ejaculated  Margery.  "  I  wonder  how. 
Mr.  George  'ud  have  took  it,  if  he'd 
been  called  instead  o'  you,  sir  ?" 

There  was  considerable  acrimony, 
not  to  say  sarcasm  in  the  remark ;  per- 
haps not  altogether  suitable  to  the 
scene  and  interview.  Good  Thomas 
Godolphin  would  not  see  it  or  appear 
to  have  noticed  it.  He  took  Margery's 
hands  in  his. 

"  I  never  thought  once  that  I  should 
die  leaving  you  in  debt,  Margery,"  he 
said,  his  earnest  tone  bearing  its  own 
emotion.  "  It  was  always  my  inten- 
tion to  bequeath  you  an  annuity  that 
would  have  kept  you  from  want  in 
your  old  age.  But  it  has  been  de- 
creed otherwise  ;  and  it  is  of  no  use 
to  speak  of  what  might  have  been. 
Miss  Janet  will  refund  to  you  by  de- 
grees what  you  have  lost  in  the  bank  ; 
and  so  long  as  you  live  you  will  be 
welcome  to  a  home  with  her.  She  has 
not  much,  but " 

"  Now  never  fash  yourself  about  me, 
Mr.  Thomas,"  interrupted  Margery. 
"  I  shall  do  well,  I  dare  say :  I'm 
young  enough  yet  for  work,  I  hope  ; 
I  shan't  starve.  Ah,  this  world's 
nothing  but  a  peck  o'  troubles,"  she 
added,  with  a  loud  sigh.  "You'll 
find  that,  sir,  when  you've  left  it :  and 
it's  a  happy  thing  for  them  as  can 
learn  as  much  afore  they  go." 

"  The  troubles  have  nearly  passed, 
for  me,"  he  said,  a  smile  illumining 
his  wan  and  wasted  features. 

"  It's  to  be   hoped  they  have,  sir. 


But  you  were  always  one  to  think  and 
care  for  others  :  and  it  is  by  such  that 
troubles  stand  the  longest  and  are  felt 
the  deepest.  If  one  didn't  learn  with 
one's  mother's  milk,  as  it  were,  that 
all  God  does  is  for  the  best,  one  might 
be  tempted  to  wonder  why  He  lets 
'em  come  to  such  as  you.  This  world 
has  had  its  share  of  sorrow  for  you, 
Mr.  Thomas." 

"I  am  on  the  threshold,  of  a  bet- 
ter, Margery,"  was  his  quiet  answer  : 
"  one  where  sorrow  cannot  enter." 

Margery  sat  for  some  little  time  on 
the  bench,  talking  to  him.  They  had 
gone  back  in  thought  to  old  times,  to 
the  illness  and  death  of  Mrs.  Godol- 
phin, to  the  long-gone  scenes  of  the 
past,  whether  of  pleasure  or  of  pain, — 
a  past  which  for  us  all  seems  to  bear 
a  charm  when  recalled  to  the  memory 
which  it  had  never  borne  when  present. 
At  length  Margery  rose  to  depart, 
declining  the  invitation  to  enter  the 
house  or  to  see  the  ladies,  and  Thomas 
said  to  her  his  last  farewell. 

"My  late  missis,  I  remember,  looked 
once  or  twice  during  her  illness  as 
gray  as  he  do,"  she  cogitated  with 
herself  as  she  went  along.  "  But  it 
strikes  me  that  with  him  it's  death. 
I've  a  great  mind  to  ask  old  Snow 
what  he  thinks.  If  it  is  so,  Mr. 
George  ought  to  be  telegraphed  for ; 
they  be  brothers,  after  all." 

Margery  made  her  way  direct  to 
the  house  of  Mr.  Snow.  Mr.  Snow 
was  absent,  but  Mr.  Snow's  boy  was 
keeping  the  surgery,  and  by  way  of 
doing  it  agreeably,  was  standing  on 
his  head  on  the  counter. 

"  Now  then  !"  cried  Margery,  in  her 
sharpest  accent,  "  is  that  how  you  at- 
tend to  the  place  in  your  master's 
absence  ?     Where  is  he  ?" 

The  boy  had  scuttered  to  his  feet 
on  the  floor,  very  much  relieved  when 
he  saw  the  intruder  was  only  Margery. 
"  He's  caught  up  into  the  moon,"  cried 
he,  impudently. 

"  I'll  catch  you,  if  you  don't  behave 
yourself,"  rebuked  Margery.  "  You 
tell  me  where  your  master  is." 

"  If  he  ain't  there  he's  elsewhere," 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT, 


381 


retorted  the  bold  boy.  "  This  here 
surgery  haven't  seen  the  color  of  his 
skin  since  morning." 

Giving  the  boy  a  smart  box  on  the 
ear  to  remind  him  of  her  visit,  Mar- 
gery went  out  again.  About  half 
way  home  she  encountered  Mr.  Snow. 
He  was  coming  along  on  the  run,  and 
would  have  passed  Margery,  but  she 
arrested  him. 

•'  There's  no  bumbailie  after  you,  is 
there  ?"  cried  she,  in  her  free  man- 
ners. "  Can't  you  stop  a  minute, 
sir  V 

"I've  been  a  few  miles  up  the  line 
and  have  got  back  late  ;  the  train  was 
twenty  minutes  behind  its  time.  What 
is  it,  Margery- worn  an  ?" 

"  Well,  I  want  to  know  your  opinion 
of  Mr.  Godolphin,  sir.  I  have  just 
been  up  to  see  him,  and  I  doa't  like 
his  look." 

•'  Does  he  look  worse  than  usual  ?" 

"  If  I  am  not  mistaken  he  looks  as 
he  have  never  looked  yet ;  as  folks 
can  look  but  once  in  their  lives — 
and  that's  right  afore  death,"  returned 
Margery.  "  When  shall  you  see  him, 
sir  ?" 

"  This  evening  if  I  possibly  can. 
Not  that  any  thing  can  be  done  for 
him  :  as  we  all  know  too  well." 

"  I'd  like  to  ask  you  another  ques- 
tion, sir,  now  that  we  are  by  ourselves," 
resumed  Margery,  laying  hold  of  his 
coat-tails  lest  he  should  evade  her. 
"  What's  your  true  opinion  of  my  mis- 
tress ?" 

•'  I  don't  know  :  I  haven't  got  one," 
replied  Mr.  Snow,  too  impulsively  for 
any  thing  but  truth.  "  Sometimes  I 
think  she'll  get  over  this  weakness 
and  do  well ;  at  others  [  am  tempted 
to  think — something  else.  Take  as 
much  cai'e  as  you  can  of  her  ?" 

He  shook  his  coat  free  and  started  off, 
running  as  before.  Margery  con- 
tinued her  way,  which  led  her  past 
the  turning  to  the  railway  station. 
She  cast  an  eye  on  the  passengers 
coming  from  the  train, — who  had  not 
joined  in  the  speed  adopted  by  Mr. 
Snow, — and  in  the  last  of  them  saw 
her  master,  Mi'.  George  Godolphin. 

Margery   halted    and    rubbed   her 


eyes,  and  almost  wondered  whether  it 
was  a  vision.  Her  mind  had  been 
buried  in  the  question,  should  she,  or 
should  she  not,  telegraph  for  him ; 
and  there  he  was,  before  her  view. 
Gay,  handsome  George  !  with  his 
ever-distinguished  entourage  (I  don;t 
know  a  better  word  in  English)  ;  his 
bearing,  his  attire,  his  person  so  essen- 
tially the  gentleman  ;  his  pleasant  face 
and  his  winning  smile. 

That  smile  was  directed  to  Margery 
as  he  came  up.  He  bore  in  his  hand 
a  small  basket  of  wicker-work,  its  pro- 
jecting topcovei'ed  with  delicate  tissue 
paper.  But  for  the  bent  of  Margery's 
thoughts  at  the  time,  she  would  not 
have  been  particularly  surprised  at 
the  sight  of  him,  for  Mr.  George's 
visits  to  Prior's  Ash  were  generally 
impromptu  ones,  paid  without  warn- 
ing. She  met  him  rather  eagerly : 
speaking  the  impulse  that  had  been 
in  her  mind, — to  send  a  message  for 
him,  on  account  of  the  state  of  his 
brother. 

"  Is  he  worse  ?"  asked  George 
eagerly. 

"  If  ever  I  saw  death  writ  in  a  face, 
it's  writ  in  his,  sir,"  returned  Mar- 
gery. 

George  hesitated  a  moment.  "  I 
think  I  will  go  up  to  Ashlydyat  with- 
out loss  of  time  then,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing back.  But  he  stopped  to  give  the 
basket  into  Margery's  hands. 

"It  is  for  your  mistress,  Margery. 
How  is  she  ?" 

"  She's  nothing  to  boast  of,"  replied 
Margery,  in  a  tone  and  with  a  stress 
that  might  have  awakened  George's 
suspicions,  had  any  fears  with  refer- 
ence to  his  wife's  state  yet  penetrated 
his  mind.  But  they  had  not.  "  I 
wish  I  could  see  her  get  a  little  bit  o' 
life  into  her,  and  then  the  health 
might  be  the  next  thing  to  come," 
concluded  Margery. 

"Tell  her  I  shall  soon  be  home." 
And  George  Godolphin  proceeded  to 
Ashh'dyat. 

It  may  be  that  he  had  not  the  fac- 
ulty of  distinguishing  the  different  in- 
dications that  a  countenance  gives 
forth,  or  it  may  be  that  to  find  his 


382 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT. 


brother  sitting  in  the  porch,  disarmed 
his  doubts  ;  but  certainly  George  saw 
no  cause  to  endorse  the  fears  expressed 
by  Margery.  She  had  entered  into  no 
details,  and  George  had  pictured  in 
his  own  mind  Thomas  as  in  bed.  To 
see  him  therefore  sitting  out-of-doors, 
quietly  reading,  certainly  lulled  all 
George's  present  fears. 

Not  but  that  the  ravages  in  the 
worn  form,  the  gray  look  in  the  pale 
face,  struck  him  as  it  was  lifted  to  his, 
— struck  him  almost  with  awe.  For 
a  few  minutes  their  hands  were  locked 
together  in  silence.  Generous  Thomas 
Godolphin  !  never  since  the  proceed- 
ings had  terminated,  the  daily  details 
were  over,  had  he  breathed  a  word  of 
the  bankruptcy  and  its  unhappiness  to 
George. 

"  George,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  I 
have  been  wishing  for  you  all  day. 
I  think  you  must  have  been  sent  on 
purpose." 

"  Margery  sent  me.  I  met  her  as  I 
was  coming  from  the  train." 

It  was  not  to  Margery  that  Thomas 
Godolphin  had  alluded — but  he  let  it 
pass.  "  Sent  on  purpose,"  he  repeat- 
ed aloud.  "  George,  I  think  the  end 
is  very  near." 

"But  you  are  surely  better?"  re- 
turned George,  speaking  in  his  im- 
pulse. "  Unless  you  were  better 
would  you  be  sitting  here  ?" 

"  Do  you  remember,  George,  my 
mother  sat  here  in  the  afternoon  of 
the  day  she  died  ?  A  feeling  came 
over  me  to-day  that  I  should  enjoy  a 
breath  of  the  open  air,  but  it  was  not 
until  after  they  had  brought  my  chair 
out  and  I  was  installed  in  it  that  I 
thought  of  my  mother.  It  struck  me 
as  being  a  curious  coincidence, — al- 
most an  omen.  Margery  recollected 
the  circumstance,  and  spoke  of  it." 

The  words  imparted  a  strange  sen- 
sation to  George,  a  shivering  dread. 
"Are  you  in  much  pain,  Thomas?" 
he  asked. 

"  Not  much  ;  a  little,  at  times  ;  but 
the  great  agony  that  used  to  come 
upon  rnc  has  quite  passed, — as  it  did 
with  my  mother,  you  know." 

Could  George  Godolphin  help  the 


feeling  of  bitter  contrition  that  came 
over  him  ?  He  had  been  less  than 
man,  lower  than  human,  had  he  helped 
it.  Perhaps  the  full  self-repi'oach  of 
his  conduct  never  came  home  to  him 
as  it  came  now.  With  all  his  faults, 
his  lightness,  he  loved  his  brother  ; 
and  it  seemed  that  it  was  he — he — 
who  had  made  the  face  wan,  the  hair 
gray,  who  had  broken  the  already 
sufficiently  stricken  heart,  and  had  sent 
him  to  his  grave  before  his  time. 

"It  is  my  fault,"  he  spoke  in  his 
emotion.  "But  for  me,  Thomas,  you 
might  have  been  with  us,  at  any  rate 
another  year  or  two.  The  trouble  has- 
told  upon  you." 

"  Yes,  it  has  told  upon  me,"  Thom- 
as quietly  answered.  There  was  noth- 
ing else  that  he  could  answer. 

"  Don't  think  of  it,  Thomas,"  was 
the  imploring  prayer.  "  It  cannot  be 
helped  now." 

"  No,  it  cannot  be  helped,"  Thomas 
rejoined.  But  he  did  not  add  that, 
even  now,  it  was  disturbing  his  death- 
bed. "  George,"  he  said,  taking  his 
brother's  hands,  "  but  that  it  seems  so 
great  an  improbability,  I  would  ask 
you  to  repay  to  our  poor  neighbors 
and  friends  what  they  have  lost,  should 
it  ever  be  in  your  power.  Who  knows 
but  you  may  be  rich  some  time  ? 
You  are  youug  and  capable,  and  the 
world  is  before  you.  If  so,  think  of 
them  :  it  is  my  last  request  to  you." 

"  It  would  be  my  own  wish  to  do 
it,"  gravely  answered  George.  "  But 
do  not  think  of  it,  Thomas  ;  do  not  let 
it  trouble  you." 

"  It  does  not  trouble  me  much  now. 
The  thought  of  the  wrong  inflicted  on 
them  is  ever-present  to  me,  but  I  am 
content  to  leave  that,  and  all  else,  in 
the  care  of  the  all-potent,  ever-merci- 
ful God.  He  can  recompense  better 
than  I  could,  even  had  I  my  energies 
and  life  left  to  me." 

There  was  a  pause.  George  loosed 
his  brother's  hands  and  took  a  seat  on 
the  bench,  where  Margery  had  sat. — 
the  very  seat  where  he  had  once  sat 
with  his  two  sticks,  in  his  weakness, 
years  before,  when  the  stranger,  Mr. 
Appleby,  came  up  and  inquired  for 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


383 


Mr.  Yerrall.  Why  or  wherefore  it 
should  have  come,  George  could  not 
tell,  but  that  day  flashed  over  his 
memory  now.  Oh,  the  bitter  remem- 
brance !  He  had  been  a  lightsome 
man  then,  without  care,  free  from  that 
depressing  incubus  that  must,  or  that 
ought  to,  weigh  down  the  soul, — cruel 
wrong  inflicted  on  his  fellow-toilers  in 
the  great  journey  of  life.  And  now? 
He  had  brought  the  evil  of  poverty 
upon  himself,  the  taint  of  disgrace  up- 
on his  name  ;  he  had  driven  his  sis- 
ters from  their  home  ;  had  sent  that 
fair  and  proud  inheritance  of  the  Go- 
dolphins,  Ashlydyat,  into  the  barter- 
market  ;  and  had  hastened  the  pass- 
age of  his  brother  to  the  grave.  Ay  ! 
dash  your  bright  hair  from  your  brow 
as  you  will,  George  Godolphin  I — pass 
your  cambric  handkerchief  over  your 
heated  face  ! — you  cannot  dash  away 
the  remembrance.  You  have  done 
all  this,  and  the  consciousness  is  very 
present  to  you  now. 

Thomas  Godolphin  interrupted  his 
reflections,  bending  towards  George 
his  wasted  features.  "  George,  what 
are  your  prospects  ?" 

"  I  have  tried  to  get  into  something 
or  other  in  London,  but  my  trying  has 
been  useless.  All  the  places  that  are 
worth  having  are  so  snapped  up.  I 
have  been  offered  something  in  Cal- 
cutta, and  I  think  I  shall  accept  it. 
If  I  find  that  Maria  has  no  objection 
to  go  out,  I  shall :  I  came  down  to- 
day to  talk  it  over  with  her." 

"  Is  it  through  Lord  Averil  ?" 

"Yes.  He  wrote  to  me  yesterday 
morning  before  he  went  to  church  with 
Cecil.  I  got  the  letter  by  the  even- 
ing mail,  and  came  off  this  morning." 

"And  what  is  the  appointment  ?  Is 
it  in  the  civil  service  ?" 

"Nothing  so  grand — in  sound,  at 
any  rate.  It's  only  mercantile.  The 
situation  is  at  an  indigo  merchant's, 
or  planter's ;  I  am  not  sure  which. 
But  it's  a  good  appointment ;  one 
that  a  gentleman  may  accept :  and  the 
pay  is  liberal.  Lord  Averil  urges  it 
upon  me, — these  merchants,  they  are 


brothers,  are  friends  of  his.  If  I  de- 
cline it,  he  will  try  for  a  civil  appoint- 
ment for  me,  but  to  obtain  one  might 
take  a  considerable  time  ;  and  there 
might  be  other  difficulties." 

"  Yes,"  said  Thomas,  shortly.  "By 
what  little  I  can  judge,  this  appears 
to  me  to  be  eligible,  just  what  will  suit 
you." 

"  I  think  so.  If  I  accept  it,  I  shall 
have  to  start  with  the  new  year.  I 
saw  the  agents  of  this  house  in  town 
this  morning,  and  they  tell  me  it  is 
quite  a  first-class  appointment  for  a 
mercantile  one.  I  hope  Maria  will  not 
dislike  to  go." 

They  sat  there  conversing  until  the 
sun  had  set.  George  pointed  out  to 
his  brother's  notice  that  the  air  was 
getting  cold,  but  Thomas  only  smiled 
in  answer :  it  was  not  the  night  air, 
hot  or  cold,  that  could  any  longer  af- 
fect Thomas  Godolphin.  But  he  said 
that  he  might  as  well  go  in,  and  took 
George's  arm  to  help  his  feeble  steps. 

"  Is  no  one  at  home  ?"  inquired 
George,  finding  the  usual  sitting-room 
empty. 

"  They  are  at  Lady  Godolphin's," 
replied  Thomas,  alluding  to  his  sisters. 
"  Bessy  goes  there  for  good  next  week, 
and  certain  arrangements  have  to  be 
made,  so  they  walked  over  this  after- 
noon just  before  you  came  up." 

George  sat  down.  The  finding  his 
sisters  absent  was  a  relief :  since  the 
unhappy  explosion,  George  had  al- 
ways felt  as  a  guilty  school-boy  in  the 
presence  of  Janet.  He  remained  a 
short  while,  and  then  rose  to  depart. 
"  I'll  come  up  and  see  you  in  the 
morning,  Thomas." 

Was  there  any  prevision  of  what 
the  night  would  bring  forth  on  the 
mind  of  Thomas  Godolphin  ?  It  might 
be.  He  entwined  in  his  the  hands 
held  out  to  him. 

"  God  bless  you,  George  !  God 
bless  you,  and  keep  you  always  1" 
And  a  lump,  not  at  all  familiar  to 
George  Godolphin's  throat,  rose  in  it 
as  he  went  out  from  the  presence  of 
his  brother. 


:384 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


CHAPTER   LXIII. 

FOR   TIIE   LAST   TIME  ;    VERY   FAINT. 

It  was  one  of  those  charmingly  clear 
nights  that  bring  a  sensation  of  pleas- 
ure to  the  senses.  Daylight  could 
not  be  said  to  have  quite  faded,  but 
the  moon  was  up,  its  rays  shining 
brighter  and  brighter  with  every  de- 
parting moment  of  day.  As  George 
passed  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly,  Janet 
was  coming  from  it. 

He  could  not  avoid  her.  I  don't 
say  he  wished  to  do  it,  but  he  could 
not  if  he  had  wished  it.  They  stood 
talking  together  for  some  time  ;  on 
Thomas's  estate ;  on  this  Calcutta 
prospect  of  George's,  for  Janet  had 
heard  something  of  it  from  Lord  Av- 
eril,  and  she  questioned  him  closely  ; 
on  other  subjects.  It  was  growing 
quite  night  when  Janet  made  a  move- 
ment homewards,  and  George  could 
do  no  less  than  attend  her. 

"  I  thought  Bessy  was  with  you," 
he  remarked,  as  they  walked  along. 

•'  She  is  I'emaining  an  hour  or  two 
longer  with  Lady  Godolphin  ;  but  it 
was  time  I  came  home  to  Thomas. 
When  do  you  say  you  must  sail, 
George  ?" 

''The  beginning  of  the  year.  My 
salary  will  commence  with  the  first 
of  January,  and  I  ought  to  be  off  that 
day.  I  don't  know  whether  that  will 
give  Maria  sufficient  time  for  prep- 
aration." 

"  Sufficient  time  !"  repeated  Miss 
Godolphin.  "  Will  she  be  wanting  to 
take  out  a  ship's  cargo  ?  I  should 
think  she  might  be  ready  in  a  tithe  of 
it.     Shall  you  take  the  child  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  he  hastily  answered  ;  "I 
could  not  go  without  the  child.  And 
I  am  sure  Maria  would  not  consent  to 
be  separated  from  her.  I  hope  Maria 
will  not  object  to  going  on  her  own 
score." 

"  Nonsense  !"  returned  Janet.  "  She 
will  have  the  sense  to  see  that  it  is  a 
remarkable  piece  of  good  fortune,  far 
better  than  you  had  any  right  to  ex- 
pect. Let  me  recommend  you  to  put 
by  half  the  salary,  George.     It  is  a 


very  handsome  one,  and  you  may  do 
it  if  you  will.  Take  a  lesson  from  the 
past." 

"Yes,"  replied  George,  with  a 
twitch  of  conscience.  "  I  wonder  if 
the  climate  will  try  Maria?" 

"  I  judge  that  the  change  will  be 
good  for  her  in  all  ways,"  said  Janet, 
emphatically.  "  Depend  upon  it,  she 
will  only  be  too  thankful  to  turn  her 
back  on  Prior's  Ash.  She'll  not  get 
strong  as  long  as  she  stops  in  it.  or  so 
long  as  your  prospects  are  uncertain, 
doing  nothing  as  you  are  now.  I 
can't  make  out,  for  my  part,  how  you 
live." 

"  You  might  easily  guess  that  I  have 
been  helped  a  little,  Janet." 

"  By  one  that  I  would  not  be  helped 
by  if  I  were  starving,"  severely  re- 
joined Janet.  "  You  allude,  I  pre- 
sume, to  Mr.  Yerrall." 

George  did  allude  to  Mr.  Yerrall ; 
but  he  avoided  a  direct  answer.  "All 
that  I  borrow  I  shall  return,"  he  said, 
"as  soon  as  it  is  in  my  power  to  do 
so.  It  is  not  much  :  and  it  is  given 
and  received  as  a  loan  only.  What  do 
you  think  of  Thomas  ?"  he  asked, 
willing  to  change  the  subject. 

"I  think "   Janet  stopped.    Her 

voice  died  away  into  an  awe-struck 
whisper,  and  finally  ceased.  They 
had  taken  the  path  home  round  by  the 
ash-trees.  The  Dark  Plain  lay  stretched 
before  them,  clear  and  shadowy  (but 
that  must  seem  a  contradiction)  in  the 
moonlight.  In  the  brightest  night  the 
gorse-bushes,  with  their  shade,  gave 
the  place  a  shadowy  weird-like  ap- 
pearance,— but  never  had  the  moon- 
light on  the  plain  been  clearer,  whiter, 
brighter  than  it  was  now.  And  the 
Shadow  ?" 

The  ominous  Shadow  of  Ashlydyat 
lay  there :  the  Shadow  which  had 
clung  to  the  fortunes  of  the  Godol- 
phins,  as  tradition  said,  in  past  ages  ; 
which  had  certainly  followed  the  pres- 
ent race.  But  the  dark  blackness  that 
had  characterized  it  was  unobservable 
now ;  the  Shadow  was  undoubtedly 
there,  but  had  eyes  been  looking  on  it 
less  accustomed  to  its  form  than  were 
Miss    Godolphin's    they   might   have 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


385 


failed  to  make  out  distinctly  its  out- 
lines. It  was  of  a  light,  faint  hue ; 
more  as  the  shadow  of  the  Shadow,  if 
I  may  so  express  it. 

"  George  !  do  you  notice  ?"  she 
breathed. 

"  I  see  it,"  he  answered. 

"  But  do  you  notice  its  peculiarity, 
— its  faint  appearance  ?  I  should 
say, — I  should  say  that  it  is  indeed 
going  from  us  ;  that  it  must  be  about 
the  last  time  it  will  follow  the  Godol- 
phins.  With  the  wresting  from  them 
of  Ashlydyat  the  curse  was  to  spend 
itself." 

She  had  sat  down  on  the  bench  un- 
derneath the  ash-trees,  and  was  speak- 
ing in  a  low,  dreamy  tone  :  but  George 
heard  every  word,  and  the  topic  was 
not  particularly  palatable  to  him.  He 
could  not  but  remember  that  it  was 
he  and  no  other  who  had  been  the 
cause  of  the  wresting  from  them  of 
Ashlydyat. 

"Your  brother  will  not  be  here 
long,"  murmured  Janet.  "  That's  the 
warning  for  the  last  chief  of  the  Go- 
dolphins." 

"  Oh,  Janet !  I  wish  you  were  not 
so  superstitious  !  Of  course  we  know 
— it  is  patent  to  us  all — that  Thomas 
cannot  last  long :  a  few  days,  a  few 
hours  even,  may  close  his  life.  Why 
should  you  connect  with  him  that 
wretched  Shadow  ?" 

"  I  know  what  I  know,  and  I  have 
seen  what  I  have  seen,"  was  the  reply 
of  Janet,  spoken  slowly, — nay,  sol- 
emnly. "  It  is  no  wonder  that  you 
wish  to  ignore  it,  to  affect  to  disbe- 
lieve in  it :  but  you  can  do  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other,  George  Godol- 
phin." 

George  gave  no  answering  argu- 
ment. It  may  be  that  he  felt  he  had 
forfeited  the  right  to  argue  with  Janet. 
She  again  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  have  watched  and  watched ;  but 
never  once,  since  the  day  that  those 
horrible  misfortunes  fell,  has  that 
Shadow  appeared.  I  thought  it  had 
gone  for  good  ;  I  thought  that  our 
ruin,  that  the  passing  of  Ashlydyat 
into  the  possession  of  strangers,  was 
the  working  out  of  the  curse.  But  it 
24 


seems  it  has  come  again, — for  the 
last,  final  time,  as  I  believe.  And  it 
is  but  in  accordance  with  the  past, 
that  the  type  of  the  curse  should  come 
to  shadow  forth  the  death  of  the  last 
Godolphin." 

"  You  are  complimentary  to  me, 
Janet,"  cried  George,  good-humor- 
edly.  "When  poor  Thomas  shall  have 
gone,  I  shall  be  here  still,  the  last  of 
the  Godolphins." 

"  You!"  returned  Janet,  and  her 
tone  of  scornful  contempt,  unconscious 
as  she  might  herself  be  of  it,  brought 
a  sting  to  George's  mind,  a  flush  to 
his  brow.  "  You  might  have  been 
worthy  of  the  name  of  Godolphin 
once,  laddie,  but  that's  over.  The 
last  true  Godolphin  dies  out  with 
Thomas." 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  sit 
here  ?"  asked  George,  after  a  time,  as 
she  gave  no  signs  of  moving. 

"  You  need  not  wait,"  returned  Ja- 
net. "  I  am  at  home  now,  as  may  be 
said.  Don't  stay,  George  :  I  would 
rather  you  did  not :  your  wife  must 
be  expecting  you." 

Glad  enough  to  be  released,  George 
went  on  his  way,  and  Janet  sat  on, 
alone.  With  that  Shadow  before  her, 
— though  no  longer  a  dark  one, — it 
was  impossible  but  that  her  reflections 
should  be  turned  back  on  the  unhappy 
past.  She  lost  herself  in  a  maze  of 
perplexity,  —  as  all  must  do  whose 
thoughts  roam  to  things  "  beyond 
their  ken."  Why  should  this  fate 
have  overtaken  the  Godolphin  family, 
— the  precise  fate  predicted  for  it  ages 
ago  ?  Why  should  that  strange  and 
never-to-be-accounted-for  Shadow  ap- 
pear on  the  eve  of  evil  ?  Gould  they 
not  have  gone  from  their  fate1? — not 
have  escaped  it  by  any  means  ?  It 
seemed  but  a  trifling  thing  to  do  for 
George  Godolphin,  to  keep  in  the 
right  path,  instead  of  lapsing  to  the 
wrong  one  :  it  seemed  a  more  trifling 
thing  still  for  Sir  George  Godolphin 
to  do, — to  quit  his  inheritance,  Ash- 
lydyat, for  the  Folly ;  yet  upon  that, 
pivot  events  seemed  to  have  turned. 
As  it  had  been  foretold  (so  ran  the 
prediction)    ages  before:    When   the 


386 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


chief  of  Ashlydyat  should  quit  Ash- 
lydyat, the  ruin  of  the  Godolphins 
would  be  near.  And  it  had  proved 
so.  "  Eh  me  !"  wailed  out  Janet,  in 
her  sore  anguish,  "we  are  blaming 
George  for  it  all;  but  perhaps  the  lad 
could  not  go  against  the  fate.  Who 
knows  ?" 

Who  knew,  indeed  !  Let  us  look 
back  to  some  of  the  ruin  we  have 
witnessed,  and  marvel,  as  Janet  Go- 
dolphin  did,  whether  those  whom  we 
blame  as  its  cause,  could  have  "  gone 
against  their  fate."  There  are  mys- 
teries in  this  world  which  we  cannot 
solve  :  we  may  lose  ourselves  as  we 
will  in  their  depths, — we  may  cast 
ridicule  to  them,  or  pass  them  over 
with  a  light  laugh  of  irony, — we  may 
talk,  in  our  poor  inflated  wisdom,  of 
thoir  being  amenable  to  common  laws, 
to  be  accounted  for  by  ordinary  rules 
of  science, — but  we  can  never  solve 
them,  never  fathom  them,  until  Time 
shall  be  no  more. 

A  great  deal  of  this  story,  The 
Shadow  of  Ashlydyat,  is  a  perfectly 
true  one  ;  it  is  but  the  recital  of  a 
drama  of  real  life.  And  the  supersti- 
tion that  encompasses  it  ?  ten  thous- 
and inquisitive  tongues  will  ask. 
Yes,  and  the  superstition.  There  are 
things,  as  I  have  just  said,  which  can 
neither  be  explained  nor  accounted 
for :  they  are  marvels,  mysteries,  and 
so  they  must  remain.  Many  a  family 
has  its  supernatural  skeleton,  reli- 
giously believed  in ;  many  a  house 
has  its  one  dread  corner  which  has 
never  been  fully  unclosed  to  the  bright 
light  of  day.  Say  what  men  will  to 
the  contrary,  there  is  a  tendency  in 
the  human  mind  to  allow  the  in-creep- 
ing of  superstition.  We  cannot  shut 
our  eyes  to  things  that  occur  within 
their  view,  although  we  may  be,  and 
always  shall  be,  unable  to  explain 
them,- — what  they  are,  where  they 
spring  from,  why  they  come.  If  I 
were  to  tell  you  that  I  believe  there 
are  such  things  as  omens,  warnings, 
which  come  to  us, — though  seldom 
are  they  sufficiently  marked  at  the 
time  to  be  attended  to, — I  should  be 
set  down  as  a  visionary  day-dreamer. 


I  am  nothing  of  the  sort :  I  have  my 
share  of  plain  common-sense,  I  pass 
my  time  in  working,  not  in  dreaming: 
I  never  bad  the  gratification  of  seeing 
a  ghost  yet,  and  I  wish  I  was  as  sure 
of  a  thousand  pounds  cadeau  coming 
to  me  this  moment  as  I  am  that  I 
never  shall  see  one  ;  I  have  not  been 
taken  into  favor  by  the  spirits,  have 
never  been  promoted  to  so  much  as 
half  a  message  from  them, — and  never 
expect  to  be.  But  some  curious  inci- 
dents have  forced  themselves  on  my 
life's  experience,  causing  me  to  echo 
as  a  question  the  assertion  of  the 
Prince  of  Denmark :  Are  there  more 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are 
dreamt  of  in  our  philosophy  ? 

Janet  Godolphin  rose  with  a  deep 
sigh  and  her  weight  of  care.  She 
kept  her  head  turned  to  the  Shadow 
until  she  had  passed  from  its  view, 
and  then  continued  her  way  to  the 
house,  murmuring,  "  It's  but  a  little 
misfortune  ;  it's  but  a  little  misfor- 
tune :  the  shade  is  not  much  darker 
than  the  moonlight  itself." 

Thomas  was  in  his  arm-chair,  bend- 
ing forward  towards  the  fire,  as  she 
entered.  His  face  would  have  been 
utterly  colorless,  save  for  the  bluish 
tinge  which  had  settled  there,  a  tinge 
distinguishable  even  in  the  red  blaze. 
Janet,  keen-sighted  as  Margery, 
thought  the  hue  had  grown  more 
ominous  since  she  quitted  him  in  the 
afternoon. 

"  Have  you  come  back  alone  ?" 
asked  Thomas,  turning  towards  her. 

George  accompanied  me  as  far  as 
the  ash-trees  :  I  met  him.  Bessy  is 
staying  on  for  an  hour  with  Lady  Go- 
dolphin.  Have  you  had  your  medi- 
cine, Thomas  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Janet  drew  a  chair  near  to  him,  and 
sat  down,  glancing  almost  stealthily 
at  him.  When  this  ominous  look  ap- 
pears on  the  human  face,  we  do  not 
like  to  gaze  into  it  too  boldly,  lest  its 
owner,  so  soon  to  be  called  away,  may 
read  the  fiat  in  our  own  dread  counte- 
nance. Janet  need  not  have  feared  its 
effects,  had  he  done  so,  on  Thomas 
Godolphin. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASnLYDYAT. 


387 


•  "It  is  a  fine  night,"  he  observed. 

"  It  is,"  replied  Janet.  "  Thomas," 
dropping  her  voice,  "  the  Shadow  is 
abroad." 

"Ah  !" 

The  response  was  spoken  in  no  tone 
of  dread,  of  dismay ;  but  calmly, 
pleasantly,  with  a  smile  upon  his 
lips. 

"  It  has  changed  its  color,"  con- 
tinued Janet,  "  and  may  be  called  gray 
now,  instead  of  black.  I  thought  it 
had  left  us  for  good,  Thomas  ;  I  sup- 
pose it  had  to  come  once  more." 

"  If  it  cared  to  keep  up  its  character 
for  consistency,"  he  said,  his  voice  a 
jesting  one.  "If  it  has  been  the  ad- 
vance herald  of  the  death  of  other  Go- 
dolphins,  why  should  it  not  herald  in 
mine  ?" 

"  I  did  not  think  to  hear  you  joke 
about  the  Shadow,"  observed  Janet, 
after  a  pause  of  vexation. 

"  Nay,  there's  no  harm  done.  I 
have  never  understood  it,  you  know, 
Janet ;  none  of  us  have  :  so  little  have 
we  understood,  that  we  have  not 
known  whether  to  believe  or  disbe- 
lieve. A  short  while,  Janet,  and 
things  may  be  made  plainer  to  me." 

"  How  are  you  feeling  to-night  ?" 
somewhat  abruptly  asked  Janet. 

"  Never  better  of  late  days.  It 
seems  as  if  ease,  both  of  mind  and 
body,  had  come  to  me.  I  think,"  he 
added,  after  a  few  moments'  reflection, 
"  that  what  George  tells  me  of  a  pros- 
pect opening  for  him  has  imparted 
this  sense  of  ease.  I  have  thought  of 
him  a  great  deal,  Janet,  of  his  wife 
and  child  :  of  what  would  become  of 
him  and  of  them." 

"And  it  has  been  troubling  you,  I 
conclude  !"  remarked  Janet,  with  a 
touch  of  her  old  severe  accent.  "  He 
is  not  worth  it,  Thomas." 

"  May  God  help  him  on  now !" 
murmured  Thomas  Godolphin.  "  He 
may  live  yet  to  be  a  comfort  to  his 
family ;  to  repair  to  others  some  of 
the  injury  he  has  caused.  Oh,  Janet! 
I  am  ready  to  go." 

Janet  turned  her  eyes  from  the  fire, 
that  the  tears  rising  in  them  might 
not  be  seen  to  glisten.    "  The  Shadow 


was  very  light,  Thomas,"  she  repeat- 
ed. "  Whatever  it  may  herald  forth 
will  not  be  much  of  a  misfortune." 

"A  misfortune  ! — to  be  taken  to  my 
rest  1 — to  the  good  God  who  has  so 
loved  and  kept  me  here  1  A  few 
minutes  before  you  came  in,  I  fell  in- 
to a  doze,  and  I  dreamt  I  saw  Jesus 
Christ  standing  there  by  the  window, 
waiting  for  me.  He  had  his  hand 
stretched  out  to  me  with  a  smile.  So 
vivid  had  been  the  impression,  that 
when  I  woke,  I  thought  it  was  reality 
— and  I  got  up,  and  was  hastening  to- 
wards the  window  before  I  recollected 
myself.  Death  a  misfortune  !  No, 
Janet ;  not  for  me." 

Janet  rang  the  bell  for  lights  to  be 
brought  iu.  Thomas,  hfs  elbow  rest- 
ing on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  bent  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  and  became  lost 
in  the  imagination  of  glories  that 
might  so  soon  open  to  him.  Bright 
forms  were  flitting  around  a  throne  of 
wondrous  beauty,  golden  harps  in 
their  hands ;  and  in  one  of  them,  her 
harp  idle,  her  radiant  face  turned  as  if 
wratching  for  one  who  might  be 
coming,  he  seemed  to  recognize 
Ethel'! 

A  misfortune  for  the  good  to  die  ! 
No,  no. 


CHAPTER  LXIY. 

THE  BELL  THAT  RANG  OUT  ON  THE 
EVENING  AIR. 

George  Godolphin  sat  with  his 
wife  and  child.  The  room  was  bright 
with  light  and  fire,  and  George's  spir- 
its were  bright  in  accordance  with  it. 
He  had  been  enlarging  upon  the  pros- 
pect offered  to  him,  describing  a  life  in 
India  in  vivid  colors  ;  had  drawn  some 
imaginative  pen-and-ink  sketches  of 
Miss  Meta  on  a  camel's  back ;  in  a  gor- 
geous palanquin;  in  an  open  terrace-gal- 
lery, being  fanned  by  about  fifty  slaves, 
the  young  lady  herself  looking  on  in  a 
high  state  of  excitement,  her  eyes 
sparkling,  her  cheeks  burning.  Ma- 
ria seemed  to  be  partaking  of  the  gen- 


388 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


eral  hilarity  ;  whether  she  was  really 
better,  or  the  unexpected  return  of  her 
husband  had  infused  into  her  artificial 
Strength,  unwonted  excitement,  cer- 
tain it  is  that  she  was  not  looking  very 
ill  that  night :  her  cheeks  had  bor- 
rowed some  of  Meta's  color,  and  her 
lips  were  parted  with  a  smile  at 
George's  words,  or  at  Meta's  ecstacies. 
The  child's  tongue  was  never  still ;  it 
was  papa  this,  papa  the  other,  inces- 
santly. Margery  felt  rather  cross, 
and  when  she  came  in  to  add  some 
dish  to  the  substantial  tea  she  had 
prepared  for  her  master,  told  him  she 
hoped  he'd  not  be  for  carrying  Miss 
Meta  out  to  them  wretched  foreign 
places  that  was  only  good  for  convicts. 
India  and  Botany  Bay  ranked  pre- 
cisely alike  in  the  mind  of  Margery. 

But  the  tea  was  done  with  and  re- 
moved, and  the  evening  had  gone  on, 
and  Margery  had  come  again  to  escort 
Miss  Meta  to  bed.  Miss  Meta  was 
not  in  a  hurry  to  be  escorted.  Her 
nimble  feet  were  flying  everywhere, — 
from  papa  at  the  table,  to  mamma, 
who  sat  on  the  sofa  near  the  fire ; 
from  mamma  to  Margery,  standing  si- 
lent and  grim,  scarcely  deigning  to 
look  at  the  pen-and-ink  sketches  that 
Meta  exhibited  to  her. 

'  "  I  don't  see  no  sense  in  'em,  for  my 
part,"  slightingly  spoke  Margery,  re- 
garding with  dubious  eyes  one  some- 
what indistinct  representation  held  up 
to  her.  "  Them  things  hain't  like 
Christian  animals.  A  elephant,  d'ye 
call  it  ?  Which  is  its  head,  and  which 
is  its  tail  ?" 

Meta  whisked  off  to  her  papa,  ele- 
phant in  hand.  "  Papa,  which  is  its 
head,  and  which  is  its  tail  ?" 

"  That's  its  tail,"  said  George. 
"You'll  know  its  head  from  its  tail 
when  you  come  to  ride  one,  Mar- 
gery," cried  he,  throwing  his  laughing 
glance  at  the  woman. 

"  Me  ride  a  elephant !  me  mount 
upon  one  o'  them  beasts  !"  was  the 
indignant  response.  "  I'd  like  to  see 
myself  at  it !  It  might  be  just  as 
well,  sir,  if  you  didn't  talk  about  'em 
to  the  child  :  I  shall  have  her  start 
out  of  her  sleep  screaming  to-night, 


fancying  that  a  score  of  'em's  eating 
her  up."' 

George  laughed.  Meta's  busy  brain 
was  at  work  ;  very  busy,  very  blithe- 
some just  then. 

"  Papa,  do  we  have  swings  in  In- 
dia ?" 

"  Lots  of  them,"  responded  George. 

"  Do  they  go  up  to  the  trees  ?  Are 
they  as  good  as  the  one  Mrs.  Pain 
had  made  for  me  at  the  Folly  ?" 

"  Ten  times  better  than  that,"  said 
George,  slightingly.  "  That  was  a 
muff  of  a  swing,  compared  to  what 
the  others  will  be." 

Meta  considered.  '"  You  didn't  see 
it,  papa.  It  went  up — up — oh,  ever 
so  high." 

"Did  it,"  said  George.  "We'll 
send  the  others  higher." 

"  Who'll  swing  me  ?"  continued 
Meta.  "  Mrs.  Pain  ?  She  had  used 
to  swing  me  before.  Will  she  go  to 
India  with  us  ?" 

"Not  she,"  said  George.  "What 
should  she  go  for  ?  Look  here. 
Here's  Meta  on  an  elephant,  and  Mar- 
gery on  another,  in  attendance  be- 
hind." 

He  had  been  mischievously  sketch- 
ing it  off:  Meta  on  the  elephant, 
sitting  at  her  ease,  her  dainty  little 
legs  astride,  boy-fashion,  was  rather 
a  pretty  sight :  but  poor  Margery 
grasping  hold  of  the  elephant's  body 
and  trunk,  her  face  one  picture  of 
horror  in  her  fear  of  falling,  and  some 
half-dozen  natives  propping  her  up 
on  either  side,  was  only  a  ludicrous 
one. 

Margery  looked  daggers,  but  noth- 
ing could  exceed  the  delight  of  Meta. 
"  Draw  mamma  upon  one,  papa  ; 
make  her  elephant  along-side  me. 

"Draw  mamma  upon  one?"  re- 
peated George.  "  I  think  we'll  have 
mamma  in  a  palanquin;  the  elephants 
shall  be  reserved  for  you  and  Mar- 
gery. " 

"  Is  she  coming  to  bed  to-night,  or 
isn't  she  ?"  demanded  Margery,  in  an 
uncommonly  sharp  tone,  speaking  for 
the  benefit  of  the  company  geuerally, 
not  to  anybody  in  particular. 

Meta  paid  little  attention  ;  George 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


389 


appeared  to  pay  less.  In  taking  Lis 
knife  from  his  waistcoat-pocket  to  cut 
the  pencil,  preparatory  to  "  drawing 
mamma  and  the  palanquin,"  he  hap- 
pened to  bring  forth  a  ring.  Those 
quick  little  eyes  saw  it ;  they  saw 
most  things.  "  That's  Uncle  Thomas's!" 
cried  the  child. 

In  his  somewhat  hasty  essay  to 
return  it  to  his  pocket,  George  let 
the  ring  fall  to  the  ground,  and  it 
rolled  towards  Margery.  She  picked 
it  up  wonderingly — almost  fearfully  ; 
she  had  believed  that  Mr.  Godolphin 
would  not  part  with  his  signet-ring 
during  life  :  the  ring  which  he  had 
offered  to  the  bankruptcy  commis- 
sioners, and  they,  with  every  token 
of  respect,  had  returned  to  him. 

"  Oh,  master  I  Surely  he  is  not 
dead  !" 

"Dead!"  echoed  George,  looking 
at  her  in  surprise.  "  I  left  him  better 
than  usual,  Margery,  when  I  came 
away." 

Margery  said  no  more.  Meta  was 
not  so  scrupulous.  "Uncle  Thomas 
always  has  that  on  his  fingers  :  he 
seals  his  lettei's  with  it.  Why  have 
you  brought  it  away,  papa  ?" 

"  He  does  not  want  it  to  seal  let- 
ters with  any  longer,  Meta,"  George 
answered,  speaking  gravely  now,  and 
stroking  her  golden  curls.  "  I  shall 
use  it  in  future  for  sealing  mine." 

"Who'll  wear  it?"  asked  Meta. 
"  You  or  Uncle  Thomas  ?" 

"  I  shall — some  time.  But  it  is 
quite  time  Meta  was  in  bed  ;  and 
Margery  looks  as  if  she  thought  so. 
There  !  just  a  few  of  mamma's  grapes, 
and  away  to  dream  of  elephants." 

Some  fine  white  grapes  were  heaped 
up  on  a  plate  on  the  table :  they 
were  what  George  had  brought  from 
London  for  his  wife.  He  broke  some 
off  for  Meta,  and  that  spoiled  young 
damsel  climbed  on  his  knee  while  she 
devoured  them,  chattering  incessantly. 

"  Will  there  be  parrots  in  India  ? 
Red  ones  ?" 

"  Plenty.  Red  and  green  and  blue 
and  yellow,"  returned  George,  who 
ivas  rather  magnificent  in  his  promises. 


"  There'll  be  monkeys  as  well — as 
Margery's  fond  of  them." 

Margery  flung  herself  off  in  a  tem- 
per. But  the  words  had  brought  a 
recollection  to  Meta  :  she  scuffled  up 
on  her  knees,  neglecting  her  grapes, 
gazing  at  her  papa  in  consternation. 

"  Uncle  Reginald  was  to  bring  me 
home  some  monkeys  and  some  parrots 
and  a  Chinese  dog  that  won't  bite  : 
how  shall  I  have  them,  papa,  if  I'm 
gone  to  Cal — what  is  it  ?"  She  spoke 
better  than  she  did,  and  could  sound 
the  "  th"  now ;  but  the  name  of  the 
Hindostan  presidency  was  difficult  to 
be  remembered. 

"  Calcutta.  We'll  write  word  to 
Regy's  ship  to  come  round  there  and 
leave  them,"  replied  ready  George. 

It  satisfied  the  child.  She  finished 
her  grapes,  and  then  George  took  her 
in  his  arms  to  Maria  to  be  kissed, 
and  afterwards  put  her  down  outside 
the  door  to  offended  Margery,  after  kiss- 
ing lovingly  her  pretty  lips  and  her 
golden  curls. 

His  manner  had  changed  when  he 
returned.  He  stood  at  the  fire,  near 
Maria,  grave  and  earnest,  and  began 
talking  more  seriously  to  her  on  this 
new  project  than  he  had  done  in  the 
presence  of  the  child. 

"  I  think  I  should  do  wrong  were  I 
to  refuse  it ;  do  not  you,  Maria  ? 
It  is  an  offer  that  is  not  often  met 
with." 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  would  do  wrong 
to  refuse  it.  It  is  far  better  than  any 
thing  I  had  hoped  for." 

"  And  can  you  be  ready  to  start  by 
New  Year's-day  ?" 

"I — I  could  be  ready,  of  course," 
she  answered.  "  But  I — I — don't 
know  whether " 

She  came  to  a  final  stop.  George 
looked  at  her  in  surprise  :  in  addition 
to  her  hesitation,  he  detected  con- 
siderable emotion. 

She  stood  up  by  him  and  leaned  her 
arm  on  the  mantlepiece.  She  strove 
to  speak  quietly,  to  choke  down  the 
rebellious  rising  in  her  throat :  her 
breath  went  and  came,  her  bosom  was 
heaving.     "  George,  I    am   not   sure 


390 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


whether  I  shall  be  able  to  undertake 
the  voyage.  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
shall  live  to  go." 

Did  his  heart  beat  a  shade  quicker  ? 
He  looked  at  her,  more  in  surprise 
still  than  in  any  other  feeling.  He  had 
not  in  the  least  realized  this  faint 
suggestion  of  the  future. 

"  My  darling,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

He  had  passed  his  arm  round  her 
waist  and  drawn  her  to  him.  Maria 
let  her  head  fall  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  the  tears  began  to  trickle  down 
her  wasted  cheeks. 

"  I  cannot  get  strong,  George.  I 
get  weaker  instead  of  stronger  ;  and  I 
begin  to  think  I  shall  never  be  well 
again.  I  begin  to  know  that  I  shall 
never  be  well  again !"  she  added, 
amending  the  words :  "  I  have  thought 
it  some  time." 

"  How  do  you  feel  ?"■  he  asked, 
breaking  the  silence  that  had  ensued. 
"  Are  you  in  any  pain  ?" 

"  I  have  had  a  pain  in  my  throat 
ever  since  the — ever  since  the  sum- 
mer ;  and  I  have  a  constant  inward 
pain  here" — touching  her  chest.  "  Mr. 
Snow  says  both  arise  from  the 
same  cause — nervousness ;  but  I  don't 
know." 

"  Maria,"  he  said,  his  voice  quite 
trembling  with  its  tenderness,  "  shall 
I  tell  you  what  it  is  ?  The  worry  of 
the  past  summer  has  had  a  bad  effect 
upon  you  and  brought  you  into  this 
low,  weak  state.  Mr.  Snow  is  right : 
it  is  nervousness  :  and  you  must  have 
change  of  scene  ere  you  can  recover. 
Is  he  attending  you  ?" 

"He  calls  every  other  day  or  so, 
and  he  sends  me  medicine  of  different 
kinds  ;  tonics,  I  fancy.  I  wish  I  could 
get  strong  !  I  might — perhaps — get 
a  little  better,  that  is,  I  might  feel  a 
trifle  better,  if  I  were  not  always  so 
entirely  alone.  I  wish,"  she  more 
timidly  added,  "that  you  could  be 
with  me  more  than  you  are." 

"  You  cannot  wish  it  so  heartily  as 
I,"  returned  George.  "A  little  while, 
my  darling,  and  things  will  be  bright 
again.  I  have  been  earnestly  and 
constantly  seeking  for  something  to 
do  in  London,  and  was  obliged  to  be 


there.  Now  that  I  have  this  place 
given  me,  I  must  be  there  still  chiefly 
until  we  sail,  making  my  preparations. 
You  can  come  to  me  if  you  like,  until 
we  do  go,"  he  added,  "if  you  would 
rather  be  there  than  here.  I  can 
change  my  bachelor  lodgings,  and  get 
a  place  large  enough  for  you  and 
Meta." 

She  felt  that  she  was  not  equal  to 
the  removal,  and  she  felt  that  if  she 
l'eally  were  to  leave  Europe  she  must 
remain  this  short  intervening  time 
near  her  father  and  mother.  But — 
even  as  she  thought  it — the  convic- 
tion came  upon  her,  firm  and  strong, 
that  she  never  should  leave  it;  should 
not  live  to  leave  it.  George's  voice, 
eager  and  hopeful,  interrupted. 

"We  shall  begin  life  anew  in  India, 
Maria :  with  the  old  country  we  shall 
quit  old  sores.  As  to  Margery — I 
don't  know  what's  to  be  done  about  her. 
It  would  half  break  her  heart  to  drag 
her  to  a  new  land,  and  quite  break  it 
to  carry  off  Meta  from  her.  Perhaps 
we  had  better  not  attempt  to  influence 
her  either  way,  but  let  the  decision 
rest  entirely  with  her." 

"  She  will  never  face  the  live  ele- 
phants," said  Maria,  her  lips  smiling 
at  the  joke,  as  she  endeavored  to  be 
gay  and  hopeful  as  George  was.  But 
the  effort  utterly  failed.  A  vision 
came  over  her  of  George  there  alone; 
herself  in  the  cold  grave,  Avhither  she 
believed  she  was  surely  hastening ; 
Meta — ay,  what  of  Meta  ? 

"  Oh,  George  !  if  I  might  but  get 
strong  !  if  I  might  but  live  to  go  !" 
she  cried,  in  a  wail  of  agony. 

"  Hush,  hush  !  Maria,  hush  !  I  must 
not  scold  you;  but  indeed  it  is  not 
right  to  give  way  to  these  low  spirits. 
That  of  itself  will  keep  you  back. 
Shall  I  take  you  up  to  town  with  me 
now,  to-morrow,  just  for  a  week's 
change  ?  I  know  it  would  partially 
bring  you  round,  and  we'd  make  shift 
in  my  rooms  for  the  time.  Margery 
will  take  care  of  Meta  here." 

She  knew  how  Avorse  than  useless 
was  the  thought  of  attempting  it ;  she 
saw  that  George  could  not  be  brought 
,to  understand  her  excessive  weakness. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


391 


A  faint  hope  came  across  her  that, 
now  that  the  uncertainty  of  his  future 
prospects  was  removed,  she  might 
grow  better.  That  uncertainty  had 
been  distressing  her  sick  heart  for 
months. 

She  subdued  her  emotion  and  sat 
down  in  the  chair  quietly,  saying  that 
she  was  not  strong  enough  to  go  up 
with  him  this  time  :  it  would  be  a 
change  in  one  sense  for  her,  she  added, 
the  thinking  of  the  new  life  ;  and  then 
she  began  to  talk  of  other  things. 

"Did  you  see  Reginald  before  he 
sailed  ?" 

"Not  immediately  before  it,  I  think. " 

"  You  are  aware  that  he  has  gone  as 
common  seaman." 

"Yes.  By  the  way,  there's  no  know- 
ing what  I  may  be  able  to  do  for  Regy 
out  there.  And  for  Isaac  too,  perhaps. 
Once  I  am  in  a  good  position  I  shall 
be  able  to  assist  them — and  I'll  do  it. 
Regy  hates  the  sea :  I'll  get  him  some- 
thing more  to  his  taste  in  Calcutta." 

Maria's  face  flushed  with  hope,  and 
she  clasped  her  nervous  hands  to- 
gether. "If  you  could,  George  !  how 
thankful  I  should  be  !  I  think  of  poor 
Regy  and  his  hard  life  night  and 
day." 

"Which  is  not  good  for  you  by  any 
means,  young  lady.  I  wish  you'd  get 
■out  of  that  habit  of  thinking  and  fret- 
ting about  others.  It  has  been  just 
poor  Thomas's  fault," 

She  answered  by  a  faint  smile. 
"  Has  Thomas  given  you  his  riug  ?" 
she  asked. 

"He  gave  it  me  this  afternoon,"  re- 
plied George,  taking  it  from  his  pocket. 
It  was  a  ring  with  a  bright  green 
stone,  on  which  was  engraved  the 
arms  of  the  Godolphins.  Sir  George 
had  worn  it  always,  and  it  came  to 
Thomas  at  his  death :  now  it  had 
come  to  George. 

"You  do  not  wear  it,  George." 

"  'Not  yet.  I  cannot  bear  to  put  it 
on  my  finger  while  Thomas  lives.  In 
point  of  fact,  I  have  no  right  to  do  so 
— at  least,  to  use  the  signet :  it  per- 
tains exclusively  to  the  head  of  the 
Godolphins." 

"Do  you  see  Mrs.  Pain  often  ?"  Ma- 


ria presently  said,  with  apparent  in- 
difference. But  George  little  knew 
the  fluttering  emotion  that  had  been 
working  within,  or  the  effort  it  had 
taken  to  subdue  it  ere  the  question 
could  be  put. 

"  I  see  her  sometimes ;  not  often. 
She  gets  me  to  ride  with  her  in  the 
Park  now  and  then." 

"  Does  she  intend  to  continue  to  re- 
side with  the  Verralls  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  have  not  heard 
her  mention  any  thing  about  it," 

"  George,  I  have  often  wondered 
where  Mrs.  Pain's  money  comes 
from,"  Maria  resumed,  in  a  dreamy 
tone.  "  It  was  said  in  the  old  days, 
you  know,  that  the  report  of  her  hav- 
ing thirty  thousand  pounds'  fortune 
was  false  ;  that  she  had  none." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  had  a  penny," 
returned -George.  "As  to  her  in- 
come, I  fancy  it  is  drawn  from  Terrall. 
Mrs.  Pain's  husband  was  connected 
in  some  business-way  with  Yerrall, 
and  perhaps  she  still  benefits.  I  kuow 
nothing  whatever,  but  I  have  often 
thought  it  must  be  so.  Hark  !  List- 
en !" 

George  raised  his  hand  as  he  ab- 
ruptly spoke,  for  a  distant  sound  had 
broken  upon  his  ear.  Springing  to 
the  window  he  threw  it  open.  The 
death-bell  of  All  Souls'  was  booming 
out  over  Prior's  Ash. 

Before  a  word  was  spoken  by  him 
or  by  his  wife  ;  before  George  could 
still  the  emotion  that  was  thumping 
at  his  heart,  Margery  came  in  with  a 
scared  face  :  in  her  flurry,  her  sudden 
grief,  she  addressed  him  as  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  address  him  in  his 
boyhood. 

"  Do  you  hear  it,  Master  George  ? 
That's  the  passing-bell !  It  is  for  him. 
There's  nobody  else  within  ten  miles 
that  they'd  trouble  to  have  the  bell 
tolled  for  at  nigh  ten  o'clock  at  night. 
The  master  of  Ashlydyat's  gone." 

She  sat  down  on  a  chair,  regardless 
of  the  presence  of  her  master  and 
mistress,  and  flinging  her  apron  over 
her  face,  burst  into  a  storm  of  sobs. 

A  voice  in  the  passage  outside 
aroused  her,  for  she  recognized  it  as 


392 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


Bexley's.  George  opened  the  room 
door,  and  the  old  man  came  in. 

"  It  is  all  over,  sir,"  he  said,  his 
manner  strangely  still,  his  voice  un- 
naturally calm  and  low,  as  is  some- 
times the  case  where  emotion  is  striven 
to  be  suppressed.  "  Miss  Janet  bade 
me  come  to  you  with  the  tidings." 

George's  bearing  was  suspiciously 
quiet  too.  "  It  is  very  sudden,  Bex- 
ley,"  he  presently  rejoined. 

Maria  had  risen  and  stood  with  one 
hand  leaning  on  the  table,  her  eyes 
strained  on  Bexley,  her  white  face 
turned  to  him.    Margery  never  moved. 

"  Yery  sudden,  sir:  and  yet  my 
mistress  did  not  seem  unprepared  for 
it.  He  took  his  tea  with  her  and  was 
so  cheerful  and  well  over  it,  that  I 
declare  I  began  to  hope  he  had  taken 
a  fresh  turn.  Soon  afterwards  Miss 
Bessy  came  back,  and  I  heard  her 
laughing  in  the  room  as  she  told  them 
some  story  that  had  been  related  to 
her  by  Lady  Godolphin.  Presently 
my  mistress  called  me  in,  to  give  me 
directions  about  a  little  matter  she 
wanted  done  to-morrow,  and  while 
she  was  speaking  to  me,  Miss  Bessy 
cried  out.  We  turned  round  and  saw 
her  leaning  over  my  master.  He  had 
slipped  back  in  his  chair  powerless, 
and  I  hastened  to  raise  and  support 
him.  Death  was  in  his  face,  sir ; 
there  was  no  mistaking  it ;  but  he  was 
quite  conscious,  quite  sensible,  and 
smiled  at  us.  '  I  must  say  farewell  to 
you,'  he  said,  and  Miss  Bessy  burst 
into  a  fit  of  sobs ;  but  my  mistress 
kneeled  down  quietly  before  him,  and 
took  his  hands  in  hers,  and  said, 
'  Thomas,  is  the  moment  come  V  'Yes, 
it  is  come,'  he  answered,  and  he  tried 
to  look  round  at  Miss  Bessy,  who 
stood  a  little  behind  his  chair.  'Don't 
grieve,'  he  said,  '  I  am  going  on  first,' 
but  she  only  sobbed  the  more.  '  Good- 
by,  my  dear  ones,'  he  continued ; 
'  good-by,  Bexley ;  I  shall  wait  for 
you  all,  as  I  know  I  am  being  waited 
for.  Fear  ?'  he  went  on,  for  Miss 
Bessy  sobbed  out  something  that 
sounded  like  the  word,  '  fear,  when  I 
am  going  to  God  ! — when  I  saw  Jesus 
— Jesus '" 


Bexley  fairly  broke  down  with  a 
great  burst,  and  the  tears  were  rolling 
silently  over  Maria's  cheeks.  George 
wheeled  round  to  the  window  and 
stood  there  with  his  back  to  them. 
Presently  Bexley  mastered  himself 
and  resumed  :  Margery  had  come  for- 
ward then  and  taken  her  apron  from 
before  her  eyes. 

"  It  was  the  last  word  he  spoke, 
'Jesus.'  His  voice  ceased,  his  hands 
fell,  and  the  eyelids  dropped.  There 
was  no  struggle  ;  nothing  but  a  long 
gentle  breath  ;  and  he  died  with  the 
smile  upon  his  lips." 

"  He  had  cause  to  smile,"  interjected 
Margery,  the  words  coming  from  her 
in  jerks.  "  If  ever  a  man  has  gone* 
to  his  rest  in  heaven  it  is  Mr.  Godol- 
phin. He  had  more  than  his  share  of 
sorrow  in  this  world,  and  God  has 
took  him  to  a  better." 

Every  feeling  in  George's  heart 
echoed  to  the  words, — every  pulse 
beat  in  wild  sorrow  for  the  death  of 
his  good  brother, — every  sting  that 
remorse  could  bring  pricked  him  with 
the  consciousness  of  his  own  share  in 
it.  He  thrust  his  burning  face  beyond 
the  window  into  the  cool  night;  he 
raised  his  ejes  to  the  blue  canopy  of 
heaven,  serene  and  fair  in  the  moon- 
light, almost  as  if  he  saw  in  imagina- 
tion the  redeemed  soul  winging  its- 
flight  thither.  He  pressed  his  hands 
upon  his  throbbing  breast  to  still  its 
emotion  ;  but  for  the  greatest  exer- 
cise of  self-control  he  would  have 
burst  into  sobs,  as  Bexley  had  done. ; 
and  it  may  be  that  he  ;  he,  careless 
George  Godolphin  ;  breathed  forth  a 
yearning  cry  to  Heaven  to  be  pardon- 
ed his  share  of  the  past.  If  Thomas, 
in  his  changed  condition,  could  look 
down  upon  him,  now,  with  his  loving 
eyes,  his  ever-forgiving  spirit,  he 
would  know  how  bitter  and  genuine, 
how  full  of  anguish  were  these  re- 
grets ! 

George  leaned  his  head  on  the  side 
of  the  window  to  subdue  his  emotion, 
to  gather  the  outward  calmness  that 
man  likes  not  to  have  ruflied  before 
the  world  ;  he  listened  to  the  strokes 
of   the   passing-bell,    ringing   out   so 


THE     SHADOW      OF      ASH  L  YD  Y AT 


393 


sharply  in  the  still  night  air:  and 
every  separate  stroke  was  laden  with 
its  weight  of  pain. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

THE  SHUTTERS  CLOSED  AT  PRIOR'S  ASH. 

You  might  have  taken  it  to  be  Sun- 
day in  Prior's  Ash, — save  that  Sundays 
in  ordinary  do  not  look  so  gloomy. 
The  shops  were  shut,  a  drizzling  rain 
came  down,  and  the  heavy  bell  of  All 
Souls'  was  booming  out  at  solemn  in- 
tervals. It  was  tolling  for  the  funeral 
of  Thomas  Godolphin.  Morning  and 
night,  from  eight  o'clock  to  nine,  had 
it  so  tolled  since  his  death  ;  but  on 
this,  the  last  day,  it  did  not  cease  with 
nine  o'clock,  but  tolled  on,  and  would 
so  toll  until  he  should  be  in  his  last 
home.  People  had  closed  their  shut- 
ters with  one  accord  as  the  clock 
struck  ten  ;  some,  indeed,  had  never 
opened  them  at  all :  if  they  had  not 
paid  him  due  respect  always  in  life, 
they  paid  it  him  in  death.  Ah,  it  was 
only  for  a  time,  in  the  first  brunt  of 
the  shock,  that  Prior's  Ash  mistook 
Thomas  Godolphin.  He  had  gone  to 
his  long  home, — to  his  last  resting- 
place  :  he  had  gone  to  the  merciful 
God  to  whom  (it  may  surely  be  said  !) 
he  had  belonged  in  life  ;  and  Prior's 
Ash  mourned  for  him  as  for  a  brother. 

You  will  deem  this  a  sad  story, — 
perhaps  bring  a  reproach  upon  me  for 
recording  such.  That  bell  has  tolled 
out  all  too  often  in  its  history ;  and 
this  is  not  the  first  funeral  you  have 
seen  at  All  Souls'.  If  I  wrote  only 
according  to  my  own  expei'iences  of 
life,  my  stories  would  be  always  sad 
ones.  Life  wears  different  aspects 
for  us,  and  its  cares  and  its  joys  are 
unequally  allotted  out.  At  least,  they 
so  appear  to  be.  One  glances  up 
heavily  from  the  burdens  heaped  upon 
him,  and  sees  others  without  care 
basking  in  the  sunshine.  But  I  often 
wonder  whether  those  who  seem  so 
gay,  whose  path  seems  to  be  cast  on 


the  broad,  sunshiny  road  of  pleasure, 
— whether  they  have  Dot  a  skeleton  in 
their  closet.  I  look,  I  say,  and  won- 
der, marveling  what  the  reality  may 
be.  Nothing  but  gayety,  nothing  but 
lightness,  nothing,  to  all  appearance, 
but  freedom  from  care.  Is  it  really 
so  ?  Perhaps,  with  some, — a  very 
few.  Is  it  well  for  those  few  ?  A 
man  to  whom  God  gave  more  than 
earthly  wisdom  has  said  for  our  profit 
that  sorrow  is  better  than  laughter ; 
that  the  heart  of  the  wise  is  in  the 
house  of  mourning,  and  the  living 
will  lay  it  to  his  heart.  The  broad, 
sunshiny  road  of  pleasure,  down  which 
so  many  seem  to  travel,  is  not  the 
safest  road  to  a  longer  home  or  the 
best  preparation  for  it.  Oh,  if  we 
could  but  see  the  truth  when  the  bur- 
den upon  us  is  heavy  and  long  ! — 
when  we  glance  into  the  world  at  the 
light  and  free,  and  are  tempted  to 
wail  out  our  rebellious  complaint, 
"  Lord,  is  it  just  that  this  should  be 
laid  upon  me  ? — why  cannot  they,  who 
seem  to  have  only  joy  dealt  out  for 
their  portion,  help  to  bear  their  share 
of  the  burden  ?"  Fellow-sufferers, 
if  we  could  but  read  that  burden 
aright,  we  should  see  how  good  it  is, 
and  bless  the  hand  that  sends  it. 

But  we  never  can.  We  are  but 
mortal ;  born  with  a  mortal's  keen 
susceptibility  to  care  and  pain.  We 
preach  to  others  that  these  things  are 
sent  for  their  good  ;  we  complaisantly 
say  so  to  ourselves  when  not  actually 
suffering ;  but  when  the  fiery  trial  is 
upon  us,  then  we  groan  out  in  our  sore 
anguish  that  it  is  greater  than  we  can 
bear. 

There  is  no  doubt  that,  with  the 
many,  suffering  predominates  in  life, 
and  if  we  would  paint  life  as  it  is,  that 
suffering  must  form  a  comprehensive 
view  in  the  picture.  Reverses,  sick- 
ness, death, — they  seem  to  follow  some 
people  as  surely  as  that  the  shadow 
follows  the  sun  at  noontide.  It  is 
probable — nay,  it  is  certain — that 
minds  are  so  constituted  as  to  receive 
them  differently.  Witness,  as  a  case 
in  point,  the  contrast  in  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin   and    his    brother    George. 


394 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


Thomas,  looking  back,  could  say  that 
nearly  his  whole  course  of  life  had 
been  marked  by  sorrow, — some  of  its 
sources  have  been  mentioned  here, — 
not  all.  There  was  the  peculiarly 
melancholy  death  of  Ethel ;  there  was 
the  long-felt  disease  which  marked 
him  for  its  early  prey  ;  there  was  the 
dread  crash,  the  disgrace,  which  nearly 
broke  his  heart.  It  is  true  he  felt 
these  things  more  than  many  would 
have  felt  them;  but  I  think  it  is  to 
those  who  feel  them  most  that  sorrows 
chiefly  come. 

And  George  ?  Look  at  him.  Gay, 
light,  careless,  handsome  George  ? 
What  sorrows  had  marked  his  path  ? 
None.  He  had  revelled  in  the  world's 
favor,  he  had  made  a  wife  of  the 
woman  he  loved,  he  had  altogether 
floated  gayly  down  the  sunniest  part 
of  the  stream  of  life.  The  worry 
which  his  folly  had  brought  upon  him- 
self, and  which  ended  in  his  own  ruin 
and  in  the  ruin  of  so  many  others,  he 
had  not  felt.  No,  he  had  scarcely  felt 
it :  and  once  let  him  turn  his  back  on 
England  and  enter  upon  new  scenes, 
he  will  barely  remember  it. 

Yes,  this  is  a  sad  story,  and  some 
of  you,  my  readers,  may  feel  inclined 
to  blame  me, — to  say  I  might  have 
made  it  merrier.  According  to  your 
experiences,  as  they  shall  have  lain  on 
the  sunny  or  the  shady  side  of  life,  so 
will  you  judge  it.  How  true  it  will  be 
to  some,  let  them  tell.  I  could  relate 
to  you  many  of  actual  life  far  more 
sorrowful  than  this.  But  take  cour- 
age,— take  courage,  you  who  are  well- 
nigh  wearied  out !  Remember  it  is 
on  earth's  battle-field  that  heaven's 
crown  is  won. 

All  Souls'  clock  sti'uek  eleven,  and 
the  beadle  came  out  of  the  church  and 
threw  wide  the  gates.  It  was  very 
punctual,  for  there  came  the  hearse  in 
sight, — punctual  as  he,  who  was  borne 
within  it,  had  in  life  always  liked  to 
be.  Prior's  Ash  peeped  out  through 
the  chinks  of  its  shutters,  behind  its 
blinds  and  its  curtains,*  to  see  the 
sight,  as  it  came  slowly  winding  along 
the  street  to  the  sound  of  the  solemn 
bell.     Through   the  mist  of  blinding 


tears  which  rolled  down  many  a  face 
did  Prior's  Ash  look  out.  They  might 
have  attended  him  to  the  grave,  fol- 
lowing unobtrusively,  but  that  it  was 
known  to  be  the  wish  of  the  family 
that  such  demonstration  should  not 
be  made  :  so  they  contented  them- 
selves with  shutting  up  their  houses, 
and  observing  the  day  as  one  of  mourn- 
ing. "Bury  me  in  the  plainest  and 
simplest  manner  possible,"  had  been 
Thomas  Godolphin's  directions  when 
the  end  was  drawing  near.  Under  the 
circumstances,  it  was  only  seemly  to 
do  so  :  but  so  antagonistic  were  pomp 
and  show  of  all  kinds  to  the  tastes  of 
Thomas  Godolphin,  in  all  things  that 
related  to  himself,  that  it  is  more  than 
probable  the  same  orders  would  have 
been  given  had  he  died  as  his  fore- 
fathers had  died,. — the  master  of  Ash- 
lydyat,  the  wealthy  chief  of  the  Godol- 
phins. 

So  a  hearse  and  a  mourning-coach 
were  all  that  had  been  commanded  to 
Ashlydyat.  What  means,  then,  this 
pageantry  of  carriages  that  follow  ? 
Fine  carriages,  gay  with  colors,  as 
they  file  past,  one  by  one,  the  strained 
eyes  of  Prior's  Ash,  some  of  them 
with  coronets  on  their  panels,  all  with 
closed  blinds,  a  long  line  of  them. 
Lady  Godolphin's  is  first,  taking  its 
place  next  the  black  mourning-coach. 
They  have  come  from  the  various 
parts  of  the  county,  near  and  distant, 
to  show  their  owners'  homage  to  that 
good  man  who  had  earned  their  deepest 
respect  during  life.  Willingly,  wil- 
lingly would  those  owners  have  at- 
tended and  moui*ned  him  in  person, 
but  for  the  same  motive  which  kept 
away  the  more  humble  inhabitants  of 
Prior's  Ash.  Slowly  the  procession 
gained  the  churchyard-gate,  and  the 
hearse  and  the  mourning-coach  stop- 
ped at  it :  the  rest  of  the  carriages 
filed  off  and  turued  their  horses'  heads 
to  face  the  churchyard,  and  waited 
still  and  quiet  while  the  hearse  was 
emptied.  Out  of  the  mourning-coach 
stepped  two  mourners  only  :  George 
Godolphin  and  the  Viscount  Averil. 

The  rector  of  All  Souls'  stood  at 
the  gate  in  his  surplice,  book  in  hand. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


395 


He  turned,  reciting  the  commence- 
ment of  the  service  for  the  burial  of 
the  dead  :  "  I  am  the  resurrection  and 
the  life."  With  measured  steps,  slow- 
ly following,  went  those  who  bore  the 
coffin,  their  heads  covered  with  the 
velvet  pall.  Geoi'ge  Godolphin  and 
Lord  Averil  came  next,  their  white 
handkerchiefs  held  to  their  faces,  and 
behind  them,  having  fallen  in  at  the 
gate,  was  Bexley,  with  a  man  named 
Andrew,  a  time-honored  servant  of 
Ashlydyat,  but  attached  to  Lady  Go- 
dolphin's  household  now.  Thus  they 
entered  the  church. 

Ere  the  rector  reappeared  again, 
book  in  hand  still,  but  not  reading 
from  it,  the  churchyard  had  grown 
pretty  full.  By  ones,  by  twos,  by 
threes,  they  had  been  coming  in,  re- 
gardless of  the  weather,  to  see  the  last 
of  the  master  of  Ashlydyat.  The 
beadle  was  lenient  to-day.  The 
beadle  felt  rather  cowed  down  him- 
self; for,  one  of  the  very  few  person- 
ages whom  that  self-important  func- 
tionary had  allowed  himself  to  respect, 
because  he  could  not  help  it,  was  Mr. 
Godolphin  ;  and  when  a  man  feels  his 
own  spirit  sad,  he  has  no  spirits  to 
lord  it  over  others.  So  the  church- 
yard had  filled,  and  the  beadle  had 
quietly  allowed  the  innovation,  and 
was  publicly  avowing  to  certain  friends 
of  his,  within  hearing,  that  he  couldn't 
ha'  felt  more,  had  it  been  a  son  of 
his  own,  nor  he  did  for  Mr.  Go- 
dolphin. 

The  rector  of  All  Souls'  took  his 
place  at  the  head  of  the  grave  and 
read  the  service,  as  the  coffin  was 
lowered.  George  stood  next  to  him  ; 
close  to  George,  Lord  Averil ;  and 
■the  other  mourners  were  clustered 
beyond.  Their  faces  were  bent ;  the 
drizzling  rain  beat  down  upon  their 
bare  heads.  Many  a  creditor  of  the 
bank,  who  had  suffered  severely,  had 
stolen  up  to  take  part  thus  silently  in 
the  service.  Perhaps  they  had  done 
it  in  the  light  of  a  peace-offering, — a 
sort  of  something  that  might  rest 
soothingly  upon  their  consciences  ;  an 
atonement  for  the  harsh  words  they 
had  once  lavished  on  Thomas  Godol- 


phin. Mr.  Snow  also  had  come  up ; 
unable  to  attend  earlier,  he  came 
stealing  now  at  the  last,  just  as  George 
had  stolen  up  years  before  at  the 
funeral  of  Ethel  Grame.  It  was  a 
notable  contrast,  the  simple  ceremony! 
of  to-day  and  the  grand  parade  which 
had  been  made  the  last  time  a  Godol- 
phin was  interred, — Sir  George.  But 
the  men,  dead,  were  different,  and  cir- 
cumstances had  changed. 

Did  the  rector  of  All  Souls',  stand- 
ing there  with  his  pale  severe  face,  his 
sonorous  voice  echoing  over  the  graves, 
recall  those  back  funerals,  when  he, 
over  whom  the  service  was  now  being 
read,  had  stood  as  chief  mourner  ? 
~No  doubt  he  did.  Did  George  recall 
them  ?  The  rector  glanced  at  him 
once,  and  saw  that  he  had  a  difficulty 
in  suppressing  his  emotion.  This 
was  the  first  time  he  and  George  had 
met  since  the  crash  had  come.  How 
did  George  feel  as  he  stood  there, 
between  the  two  men  whom  he  had 
so  wronged?  Did  he  envy  Thomas 
Godolphin  in  his  coffin  ?  He  had 
escaped  from  the  turmoil  of  the  world's 
care  and  had  gone  to  his  rest, — to 
his  rest,  if  ever  dead  man  had  in  this 
world. 

"  I  heard  a  voice  from  Heaven,  say- 
ing unto  me,  Write,  From  henceforth 
blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the 
Lord  :  even  so  saith  the  Spirit ;  for 
they  rest  from  their  labors." 

So  hushed  was  the  silence,  that 
every  word,  as  it  fell  solemnly  from 
the  lips  of  the  minister,  might  be 
heard  to  all  parts  of  the  churchyard. 
If  ever  that  verse  could  apply  to  frail 
humanity,  with  its  unceasing  struggle 
after  holiness  and  its  unceasing  fail- 
ure here,  it  most  surely  applied  to 
him  over  whom  it  was  being  spoken. 
How  did  George  Godolphin  feel  ? 
Surely  it  was  an  ordeal  to  him  to 
stand  there  before  those  men  whom  he 
had  injured,  over  the  good  brother 
whom  he  had  helped  to  send  to  the 
grave !  His  head  was  bowed,  his 
face  hidden  in  his  handkerchief;  the 
drops  of  rain  pattered  down  on  his 
golden  hair.  He  had  gone  to  his 
grave  so  -eavly  !     Bend  forward,  as  so 


396 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


many  of  those  spectators  are  doing, 
and  read  the  inscription  on  the  plate. 
There's  a  little  earth  on  the  coffin,  but 
the  plate  is  visible.  "  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin  of  Ashlydyat :  aged  forty-five 
years. " 

Only  forty-five  years  !  A  period 
at  which  some  men  think  they  are 
but  beginning  life.  It  seemed  to  be 
an  untimely  death  ;  and  it  would  have 
been,  after  all  his  pain  and  sorrow, 
but  that  he  had  entered  upon  a  better 
life.  Some  of  those,  left  to  live  on, 
might  envy  him  now.  Could  they, 
in  their  thoughtful  reflection,  have 
wished,  now  that  it  was  over,  that 
one  sorrow  had  been  lightened  for 
him,  one  pang  removed  ?  No ;  for 
God  had  but  been  fitting  him  for  that 
better  life  ;  and  it  is  only  those  who 
have  drunk  here  of  their  full  cup  of 
sorrow  that  are  eager  to  enter  upon 
it. 

They  left  him  in  the  vaulted  grave, 
the  last  Godolphin  of  Ashlydyat,  his 
coffin  resting  i*ear  his  mother's,  who 
lay  beside  Sir  George.  Was  that 
vault  destined  to  be  opened  shortly 
again  ?  In  truth,  it  was  little  worth 
while  to  close  it. 

The  spectators  began  to  draw  un- 
obtrusively away,  silently  and  decent- 
ly. In  the  general  crowd  and  bustle, 
for  everybody  seemed  to  be  on  the 
move,  George  turned  suddenly  to  the 
rector  and  held  out  his  hand.  "  Will 
you  shake  hands  with  me,  Mr.  Hast- 
ings ?" 

There  was  a  perceptible  hesitation 
on  the  rector's  part,  not  in  the  least 
sought  to  be  disguised,  ere  he  re- 
sponded to  it,  and  then  he  put  his 
own  hand  into  the  one  held  out.  "  I 
cannot  do  otherwise  over  the  dead 
body  of  your  brother,"  was  the  an- 
swer. "  But  neither  can  I  be  a  hypo- 
crite, George  Godolphin,  and  say  that 
I  forgive  you,  for  it  would  not  be 
true.  The  result  of  the  injury  you 
did  me  presses  daily  and  hourly  upon 
us  in  a  hundred  ways,  and  my  inind 
as  yet  has  refused  to  be  brought  into 
that  charitable  frame,  necessary  to 
entire  forgiveness.  This  is  not  alto- 
gether the  fault  of  my  will.     I  wish 


to  forgive  you  for  your  wife's  sake 
and  for  my  own  ;  I  pray  night  and 
morningthat  I  may  be  enabled  heartily 
to  forgive  you  before  I  die.  I  would 
not  be  your  enemy ;  I  wish  you  well 
— and  there's  my  hand  in  token  of  it : 
but  to  pronounce  forgiveness  is  not 
yet  in  my  power.  Will  you  call  in 
and  see  Mrs.  Hastings  ?" 

"  I  shall  not  have  time  to-day.  I 
must  go  back  to  London  this  evening, 
but  I  shall  be  down  again  very  shortly, 
and  will  see  her  then.  It  was  a 
peaceful  ending." 

George  was  gazing  down  dreamily 
at  the  coffin  as  he  spoke  the  last 
words.     The  rector  looked  at  him. 

"  A  peaceful  ending  !  Yes.  It 
could  not  be  any  thing  else  with  him.'''' 

"  No,  no,"  murmured  George.  "Not 
any  thing  else  with  him." 

"  May  God  in  His  mercy  send  us 
all  as  happy  a  one,  when  our  time 
shall  come  !" 

As  the  words  left  the  rector's  lips, 
the  loud  and  heavy  bell  boomed  out 
again,  giving  notice  to  Prior's  Ash 
that  the  last  rites  were  over,  that  the 
world  had  closed  forever  on  Thomas 
Godolphin. 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

CAUGHT   BY   MR.    SNOW. 

"  Oh,  George  !  can't  you  stay  with 
me!" 

The  words  broke  from  Maria  with 
a  wail  of  anguish  as  she  rose  to  bid 
her  husband  good-by.  He  was  has- 
tening away  to  catch  the  evening- 
train.  It  seemed  that  she  had  not 
liked  to  prefer  the  request  before, 
had  put  it  off  to  the  last  moment. 
In  point  of  fact,  she  had  seen  but 
little  of  George  all  clay.  After  the 
funeral  he  had  returned  in  the  coach 
with  Lord  Averil  to  Ashlydyat,  and 
only  came  home  late  in  the  afternoon. 

Lord  and  Lady  Averil,  recalled  so 
suddenly  from  their  wedding-tour, 
had  reached  Ashlydyat  the  previous 


THE     SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


397 


night,  and  would  not  leave  it  again. 
Janet  was  to  depart  from  it  in  a  few- 
days  ;  Bessy  would  be  on  the  mor- 
row with  Lady  Godolphin.  It  was 
the  last  time  they,  the  brother  and 
the  two  sisters,  would  be  together, — 
certainly  for  years,  perhaps  forever  ; 
and  George  could  not  in  decency 
hasten  away.  There  were  many  things 
to  say,  various  little  personal  memen- 
toes of  Thomas  to  be  divided.  Maria 
had  been  requested  to  spend  that 
last  day  at  Ashlydyat,  and  had  pro- 
mised ;  but  in  the  morning  she  was 
attacked  with  faintness  and  sickness, 
— as  she  had  been  two  or  three  times 
lately, — and  was  unable  to  leave  her 
bed. 

She  grew  better  in  the  after  part 
of  the  day,  and  was  up  and  looking 
herself  again  when  George  came 
home  at  dusk.  Certainly  her  face 
was  unusually  pale,  but,  if  George 
cast  a  thought  to  that  paleness,  it  was 
only  to  suppose  it  the  reflection  of  her 
new  black  dress  and  its  crape  trim- 
ming. "  Have  but  one  dress  of  deep 
mourning;  I  will  pay  for  it,"  Janet 
had  considerately  said  to  her.  "  But 
mourning  will  be  the  worst  wear  on 
board  ship,  and  too  hot  and  heavy  for 
India." 

There  were  other  reasons,  Maria 
thought  in  her  own  mind,  why  one 
dress  would  be  sufficient  for  her, — 
that  she  should  not  live  to  require 
another.  She  did  not  speak  of  this 
feeling ;  she  shrank  from  doing  so. 
In  the  first  place,  she  was  not  sure  of 
this  :  the  under-current  of  conviction 
of  it  lay  so  very  deep  in  her  heart 
that  it  was  not  always  apparent  to 
her.  Now  and  then  she  had  hinted 
it  to  George — that  it  might  be. 
George  would  not  by  any  means 
receive  it;  he  partly  reasoned,  partly 
soothed  her  out  of  it ;  and  he  went 
privately  to  Mr.  Snow,  begged  him 
to  take  all  possible  care  of  his 
wife,  and  asked  whether  there  were 
really  any  grounds  for  alarm.  Mr. 
Snow  answered  him  much  in  the  same 
terms  that  he  had  answered  Margery 
to  the  like  question, — that  he  could 
not  say  for    certain :    she   was,   no 


doubt,  very  weak  and  poorly,  but  he 
saw  no  reason  why  she  should  not 
get  out  of  it ;  and  as  for  himself,  he 
was  taking  of  her  all  the  care  he 
could  take.  The  reply  satisfied  George, 
and  he  became  full  of  the  projects 
and  details  of  his  departure,  entering 
into  them  so  warmly  with  her  that 
Maria  caught  the  spirit  of  enterprise, 
and  was  beguiled  into  a  belief  that 
she  might  yet  go. 

He  had  come  home  from  the  funeral 
bearing  a  parcel  wrapped  iu  paper 
for  Meta.  It  had  been  found  amidst 
Thomas  Godolphin's  things,  directed 
to  the  child.  George  lifted  Meta  on 
his  knee — very  grave,  very  subdued 
was  his  face  to-day — and  untied  it. 
It  proved  to  be  a  Bible,  and  on  the 
fly-leaf  in  his  own  hand  was  written, 
"  Uncle  Thomas's  last  and  best  gift 
to  Meta,"  and  it  was  dated  the  day 
he  died.  Lower  down  were  the 
words,  "  My  ways  are  ways  of  plea- 
santness, and  all  my  paths  are  peace." 

And  the  evening  had  gone  on,  and 
it  grew  time  for  George  to  go.  It 
was  as  he  bent  to  kiss  his  wife  that 
she  had  burst  out  with  that  wailing 
cry.  "  Oh,  George  !  can't  you  stay 
with  me!" 

"  My  darling,  I  must  go.  I  shall 
soon  be  down  again." 

"  Only  a  little  while  1  A  little 
longer  !" 

The  tone  in  its  anguish  quite  distress- 
ed him.  "I  would  stay  if  it  were  pos- 
sible ;  but  it  is  not.  I  came  down 
for  a  day  only,  you  know,  Maria,  and 
I  have  remained  more  than  a  week. 
It  will  not  be  so  very  long  before  we 
sail,  and  I  shall  have  my  hands  full 
with  the  preparations  for  our  voyage." 

"  I  have  been  so  much  alone,"  she 
hysterically  sobbed.  "  I  get  thinking 
and  thinking :  it  does  not  give  me  a 
chance  to  get  well.  George,  you 
have  been  always  away  from  me 
since  the  trouble  came." 

"  I  could  not  help  it.  Maria,  I 
could  not  bear  Prior's  Ash  ;  I  could 
not  stop  in  it,"  he  cried,  with  a  burst 
of  genuine  truth.  "  But  for  you  and 
Thomas,  I  should  never  have  set  my 
foot  wuthin   the  place  again,  once   I 


398 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


was  quit  of  it.  Now,  however,  I  am 
compelled  to  be  in  London  ;  there  are 
fifty  things  to  see  to.  Keep  up  your 
courage,  my  darling  1  a  little  while, 
and  we  shall  be  together  and  happy 
as  we  used  to  be." 

"  Master,"  said  Margery,  putting 
her  head  in  at  the  door,  "do  you 
want  to  catch  the  nine  train  ?" 

"All  right,"  answered  George. 

"  It  may  be  all  right  if  you  run  for 
it,  it  won't  be  all  right  else,"  grunted 
Margery. 

He  flew  off,  catching  up  his  hand- 
portmanteau  as  he  went,  and  waving 
his  adieu  to  Meta.  That  young  damsel, 
accustomed  to  be  made  a  vast  deal  of, 
could  not  understand  so  summary  and 
slighting  a  leave-taking,  and  she  stood 
quite  still  in  her  consternation,  staring 
after  her  papa, — or  rather  at  the  door 
he  had  gone  out  of.  Margery  was 
right,  and  George  found  that  he  must 
indeed  hasten  if  he  would  save  the 
train.  Maria,  with  a  storm  of  hys- 
terical sobs,  grievous  to  witness, 
caught  Meta  in  her  arms,  sat  down  on 
the  sofa,  and  sobbed  over  the  child  as 
she  strained  her  to  her  bosom. 

Meta  was  used  to  her  mamma's 
grief  now,  and  she  lay  quite  still,  her 
shoes  and  white  socks  peeping  out  be- 
yond the  black  frock ;  nay,  a  consider- 
able view  of  the  straight  little  legs 
peeping  out  as  well.  Maria  bent  her 
head  until  her  aching  forehead  rested 
on  the  fair  and  plump  neck. 

"Mammal  Mamma  dear !  Mam- 
ma's crying  for  poor  Uncle  Thomas  1" 

"No,"  said  Maria,  in  the  bitterness 
of  her  heart.  "If  we  were  but  where 
Uncle  Thomas  is,  we  should  be  happy. 
I  cry  for  us  who  are  left,  Meta." 

"Hey-day!  and  what  on  earth's  the 
meaning  of  this  ?  Do  you  think  this 
is  the  way  to  get  strong,  Mrs.  George 
Godolphin  ?" 

They  had  not  heard  him  come  in ; 
Maria's  sobs  were  loud.  Meta,  always 
ready  for  visitors,  scuffled  off  her  mam- 
ma's lap  gleefully,  and  Mr.  Snow  drew 
a  chair  in  front  of  Maria  and  watched 
her  try  to  dry  away  her  tears.  He 
moved  a  little  to  the  right,  that  the 


light  of  the  lamp  which  was  behind 
him  might  fall  upon  her  face. 

"Now  just  you  have  the  goodness 
to  tell  me  what  it  is  that's  the  matter." 

"  I — I  am  low  spirited,  I  think," 
said  Maria,  her  voice  subdued  and 
weak  now. 

"Low  spirited  1"  echoed  Mr.  Snow. 
"  Then  I'd  get  high  spirited  if  I  were 
you.  I  wish  there  had  never  been 
such  a  thing  as  spirits  invented,  for 
my  part !  A  nice  excuse  it  is  for  you 
ladies  to  sigh  and  groan  half  your 
time,  instead  of  being  rational  and 
merry,  as  you  ought  to  be.  A  woman 
of  your  sense  ought  to  be  above  it, 
Mrs.  George  Godolphin." 

"Mr.  Snow,"  interrupted  a  trouble- 
some little  voice,  "papa's  gone  back 
to  London.  He  went  without  saying 
good-by to  Meta!" 

"Ah  !  Miss  Meta  had  been  naughty, 
I  expect." 

Meta  shook  her  head  very  decisively 
in  the  negative,  but  Mr.  Snow  had 
turned  to  Maria. 

"And  so  you  were  crying  after  that 
roving  husband  of  yours  !  I  guessed 
as  much.  He  nearly  ran  over  me  at 
the  gate.  '  Step  in  and  see  my  wife, 
will  you  Snow  ?'  said  he.  'She  wants 
tonics,  or  something.'  You.  don't  want 
tonics  half  as  much  as  you  want  com- 
mon sense,  Mrs.  George  Godolphin." 

"  I  am  so  weak,"  was  her  feeble  ex- 
cuse.   "A  little  thing  upsets  me  now." 

"  Well,  and  what  can  you  expect  ? 
If  I  sat  over  my  surgery  fire  all  day 
stewing  and  fretting,  a  pretty  fit  doctor 
I  should  soon  become  for. my  patients  ! 
I  wonder  you " 

"Have  you  looked  at  my  new  black 
frock,  Mr.  Snow  ?" 

She  was  a  young  lady  that  would 
be  attended  to,  let  who  would  go  with- 
out attention.  She  had  lifted  up  her 
white  pinafore  and  stood  in  front  of 
him,  waiting  for  the  frock  to  be  ad- 
mired. 

"Very  smart  indeed  !"  replied  Mr. 
Snow. 

"  It's  not  smart,"  spoke  Meta,  re- 
sentfully. "  My  smart  frocks  are  put 
away  in  the  drawers.     It  is  for  Uncle 


THE     SHADOW     OP     ASHLYDYAT, 


399 


Thomas,  Mr.  Snow !   Mr.  Snow,  Uncle 
Thomas  is  in  heaven  now." 

"Ay,  child,  that  he  is.  And  it's 
time  that  Miss  Meta  Godolphin  was 
in  bed." 

More  resentment.  "I  sat  up  be- 
cause papa  was  going.  He  said  I 
was  to.  Mr.  Snow,  Uncle  Thomas 
has  sent  me  a  nice  book, — a  Bible. 
Mamma  says  I  am  never  to  forget  to 
read  in  it  night  and  morning ;  always, 
always ;  when  she's  gone  to  be  with 
Uncle  Thomas  in  heaven." 

Mr.  Snow  rose,  marched  to  the  door, 
and  took  upon  himself  to  call  Margery, 
asking  whether  she  deemed  it  condu- 
cive to  the  health  of  young  damsels  to 
keep  them  out  of  bed  to  that  hour. 
Margery  came  in  a  temper :  it  was  her 
master's  fault;  he  would  keep  her  up : 
and  she  supposed  when  he  had  got 
the  child  to  himself  over  in  them 
Botany  Bay  lands,  and  she,  Margery, 
not  at  hand  to  see  to  things,  he'd  be 
for  keeping  her  up  till  midnight. 

"  Then  you  don't  mean  to  go  your- 
self ?"  cried  Mr.  Snow. 

No  she  didn't,  Margery  answered. 
Not  unless  she  took  leave  of  her 
senses,  and  went  off  afore  they  came 
back  to  her.  She  could  see  enough 
of  thieves  at  home  here,  and  of  ele- 
phants too.  Anybody  as  liked  to  pay 
sixpence  to  a  traveling  caravan  could 
feast  their  eyes  on  one  o'  them  beasts 
— and  much  good  might  it  do  'em  J 

There  was  a  battle  with  Miss  Meta. 
She  did  not  want  to  go  to  bed,  and 
she  resented  the  interference  of  a 
stranger.  Margery  was  carrying  her 
off,  crying,  shrieking,  and — the  truth 
must  be  told — kicking,  when  Maria 
rose.  "Put  her  down  an  instant, 
Margery." 

She  stooped  and  gathered  the  child 
in  her  loving  arms.  A  minute  given 
to  the  subsiding  of  Miss  Meta's  grief, 
or  temper,  whichever  you  like  to  call 
it,  and  then  Maria  whispered  in  her  ear. 

"Be  good  for  my  sake,  darling.  I 
am  not  well ;  I  think  I  am  getting 
worse,  Meta.  Don't  grieve  mamma 
while  she  is  with  you.  Say  good- 
night to  Mr.  Snow." 

Loving  and  obedient  and  with  a 


graciousness  of  spirit  that  many,  far 
older,  might  have  taken  a  pattern 
from,  the  child  ran  up  to  Mr.  Snow, 
her  hand  held  out,  the  tears  of  rebel- 
lion drying  on  her  cheeks.  "  I'm  going 
for  mamma.    Good-night,  Mr.  Snow." 

They  could  hear  her  chattering  pleas- 
antly as  she  went  up-stairs  with  Mar- 
gery. Mr.  Snow  stayed  talking  with 
Maria  :  charging  her  to  do  this,  not  to 
do  the  other,  to  go  on  with  this  medi- 
cine, to  leave  off  that ;  threatening  her 
with  unheard-of  penalties  if  he  caught 
her  crying  again  in  that  violent  fash- 
ion, only  fit  for  a  dramatic  heroine  at 
the  play  ;  and  largely  promised  her  to 
be  well  in  no  time  if  she'd  only  attend 
to  his  directions,  and  make  an  effort  of 
herself.  Perhaps  those  promises  were 
vague,  as  certain  other  large  promises 
you  have  heard  of — those  made  to 
Meta  by  George. 

That  same  night  Mr.  Snow  was 
called  up  to  Mrs.  George  Godolphin. 
— Let  us  call  her  so  to  the  end  ;  but 
she  is  Mrs.  Godolphin  now.  Margery 
was  sleeping  quietly,  the  child  in  a 
little  bed  by  her  side,  when  she  was 
aroused  by  some  one  standing  over 
her.  It  was  her  mistress,  in  her  night- 
dress. Up  started  the  woman,  wide- 
awake instantly,  crying  out  to  know 
what  was  the  matter. 

"  Margery,  I  shan't  be  in  time. 
There's  the  ship  waiting  to  sail,  and 
none  of  my  things  are  ready.  I  can't 
go  without  my  things." 

Margery,  experienced  in  illness  of 
many  kinds,  saw  what  it  was.  That 
her  mistress  had  suddenly  awoke  from 
some  vivid  dream,  and,  in  her  weak 
state,  was  unable  to  shake  off  the  de- 
lusion. In  fact,  that  species  of  half- 
consciousness,  half-delirium,  was  upon 
her,  which  is  apt  in  the  night-time  to 
attack  some  patients  laboring  under 
long-continued  and  excessive  weak- 
ness. 

She  had  come  up  exactly  as  she  got 
out  of  bed.  No  slippers  on  her  feet, 
nothing  extra  put  on  her  shoulders. 
As  Margery  threw  a  warm  woolen- 
shawl  over  those  shoulders,  she  felt 
the  ominous  damp  of  the  night-dress. 
A  pair  of  list  shoes  of  her  own  were 


400 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


at  the  bedside,  and  she  hastily  thrust 
them  on  her  mistress's  feet. 

"  Let's  make  haste  down  to  your 
bed,  ma'am,  and  we'll  see  about  the 
things  there." 

Ere  the  lapse,  of  another  minute, 
Maria  was  in  the  bed,  Margery  cover- 
ing her  warmly  up.  Margery  had 
flung  an  old  cloak  over  herself,  and 
she  now  put  on  the  list  shoes,  and 
stood  talking  with  and  humoring  her 
mistress  until  her  full  consciousness 
should  come. 

"  There'll  be  no  time,  Margery ; 
there'll  be  no  time'  to  get  the  things  ; 
they  never  could  be  bought  and  made, 
you  know.  Oh,  Margery  !  the  ship 
must  not  go  without  me  !  What  will 
be  done  ?" 

"  I'll  telegraph  up  to  that  ship  to-mor- 
row morning,  and  get  him  to  put  off  his 
start  for  a  week  or  two,"  cried  Mar- 
gery, nodding  her  head  with  authority. 
"  Never  you  trouble  yourself,  ma'am  ; 
it'll  be  all  right.  You  go  to  sleep  again 
comfortable,  and  we'll  see  about  the 
things  with  morning  light." 

Some  little  time  Margery  talked ;  a 
stock  of  this  should  be  got  in,  a  stock 
of  the  other  :  as  for  linen,  it  could  all 
be  bought  ready-made, — and  the  best 
way,  too ;  now  calico  was  so  cheap. 
Somewhat  surprised  that  she  heard  no 
answer,  no  further  expressed  fear, 
Margery  looked  close  at  her  mistress 
by  the  light  of  the  night-lamp,  won- 
dering whether  she  had  gone  to  sleep 
again.  She  had  not  gone  to  sleep. 
She  was  lying  still,  cold,  white,  with- 
out sense  or  motion  :  and  Margery, 
collected  Margery,  very  nearly  gave 
vent  to  a  scream. 

Maria  had  fainted  away.  There 
was  no  doubt  of  that,  but  Margery  did 
not  understand  it  at  all,  or  why  she 
should  have  fainted  when  she  ought 
to  have  gone  to  sleep.  Margery. liked 
it  as  little  as  she  understood  it ;  and 
she  ran  up-stairs  to  their  landlady, 
Mrs.  James,  and  got  her  to  dispatch 
her  son  for  Mr.  Snow. 

Maria  had  recovered  consciousness 
when  he  came  in,  both  from  the  faint- 
ing-fit and  from  the  delusion.  He  did 
not  seem  to  think  much  of  it ;  not  half 


as  much  as  he  did  about  the  violent 
fit  of  weeping  in  which  he  had  caught 
her  in  the  evening :  it  was  nothing 
but  the  effects  of  the  exhaustion  left 
by  that,  as  he  believed.  He  adminis- 
tered some  restorative,  and  said  he 
would  come  again  betimes  in  the 
morning. 

"  I'll  stop  here  the  rest  of  the  night, 
and  watch,"  said  Margery,  as  he  de- 
parted. 

But  Maria  would  not  hear  of  it.  "  I 
am  not  ill,  Margery  ;  it  has  all  passed. 
Indeed,  I  insist  upon  your  going  to 
your  bed." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  you  get  having 
none  o'  them  dreams,  ma'am,  again  !" 
remonstrated  Margery.  "  I  don't  like 
'em.  You  might  catch  your  death  of 
cold  a-coming  up  that  shivering  stair- 
case out  o'  your  hot  bed.  And  the 
child,  too  1  if  she  got  woke  up  by  your 
coming  in,  there's  no  knowing  what 
fright  it  mightn't  put  her  into  !" 

But  that  was  only  the  beginning. 
Night  after  night  would  these  attacks 
of  semi-delirium  beset  her.  Mr.  Snow 
came  and  came,  and  drew  an  ominous 
face,  and  doubled  the  tonics  and 
changed  them,  and  talked,  and  joked, 
and  scolded.  But  it  all  seemed  of  no 
avail :  she  certainly  did  not  get  bet- 
ter. Weary,  weary  hours  !  weary, 
weary  days  !  as  she  lay  there  alone, 
struggling  with  her  malady.  And  yet 
no  malady  either  that  Mr.  Snow  could 
discover, — nothing  but  a  weakness, 
which  he  only  half  believed  in. 


CHAPTER  LXVII. 

V 

A   BANE,    AS   WAS   PREDICTED   YEARS 
BEFORE, 

Janet  and  Bessy  Godolphin  sat 
with  Mrs.  George.  The  time  had 
come  for  Janet  to  quit  Ashlydyat,  and 
she  was  paying  her  farewell  visit  to 
Maria.  Maria  looked  pretty  well 
when  they  had  come  in,  as  she  sat  at 
the  window  at  work, — at  work  with 
her  weak  and  fevered  hands.    No  very 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


401 


poetical  employment,  that  on  which 
she  was  engaged,  but  one  which  has 
to  be  done  in  most  families,  neverthe- 
less — stocking-darning.  She  was  darn- 
ing socks  for  Miss  Meta.  Miss  Meta, 
her  sleeves  and  white  pinafore  tied  up 
with  black  ribbon,  her  golden  curls 
somewhat  in  disorder,  for  the  young 
lady  had  rebelliously  broken  from 
Margery,  and  taken  a  race  round  the 
garden  in  the  blowing  wintry  wind, 
her  smooth  cheeks  fresh  and  rosy, 
was  now  roasting  her  face  in  front  of 
the  fire,  her  doll  and  a  whole  collec- 
tion of  doll's  clothes  lying  around  her 
on  the  hearth-rug. 

Maria  laid  down  her  work  when 
the  Miss  Godolphins  in  their  deep 
mourning  entered,  and  rose  to  shake 
hands,  and  drew  forward  chairs  for 
them,  and  did  altogether  as  anybody 
else  does  at  receiving  intimate  friends, 
and  seemed  pretty  well.  In  moments 
of  excitement, — and  the  slightest  thing 
excited  her  now, — she  appeared  to  be 
buoyed  up  with  artificial  strength. 
Meta  bustled  here  and  there,  and  threw 
her  doll  into  a  corner,  and  scattered  its 
clothes  anywhere,  and  chattered  with- 
out ceasing :  she  began  to  tell  Bessy 
of  the  large  elephant  papa  would 
keep  for  her  to  go  out  riding  upon  in 
India. 

Bessy  had  come,  not  so  much  to 
accompany  Janet  as  for  a  special  pur- 
pose,— that  of  delivering  a  message 
from  Lady  Godolphin.  My  lady, 
deeming  possibly  that  her  displeasure 
had  lasted  long  enough,  graciously 
charged  Bessy  with  an  invitation  to 
Maria,  to  spend  a  week  at  the  Folly 
ere  her  departure  for  Calcutta.  She 
would  have  come  herself  and  invited 
her  in  person,  she  bade  Bessy  say,  but 
for  a  bad  cold  which  confined  her  in- 
doors, and  she  included  Miss  Meta  in 
the  invitation, — a  notable  mark  of  at- 
tention, since  Lady  Godolphin  much 
disliked  children  so  long  as  they  were 
at  their  troublesome  age,  and  had 
never,  in  all  the  remembrance  of  Pri- 
or's Ash,  invited  one,  Meta  excepted, 
to  a  sojourn  at  her  house. 

"  She   was    not   for   inviting    Meta 
now,"    said    straightforward    Bessv, 
25 


"but  I  said  I  would  take  care  that  she 
was  not  troublesome,  in  the  presence 
of  Lady  Godolphin.  I  hope  you  will 
come,  Maria.  If  you  will  fix  your 
own  time,  she  said,  the  carriage  shall 
be  here  to  bring  you." 

Maria  gave  a  sort  of  sobbing  sigh. 
"  She  is  very  kind.  Tell  Lady  Go- 
dolphin how  kind  I  feel  it  of  her, 
Bessy  ;  but  I  am  not  well  enough  to 
go  from  home  now." 

"  My  opinion  was,  that  Maria  would 
have  little  enough  of  time  at  home  for 
her  preparations  for  the  voyage,  with- 
out going  from  it  for  a  week,"  re- 
marked Janet.  "  But  about  that,  my 
dear," — turning  kindly  to  her, — "you 
must  be  the  best  judge." 

"I  could  not  go,  Janet;  I  am  not 
strong  enough.  Bessy  will  be  so  kind 
as  to  explain  that  to  Lady  Godolphin. 
I  cannot  get  up  before  middle-day 
now." 

Bessy  looked  at  her.  "  But,  Maria, 
if  you  are  not  strong  enough  to  go  out 
on  a  week's  visit,  how  shall  you  be 
strong  enough  to  undertake  a  three- 
months'  voyage  ?" 

Maria  paused  ere  she  answered  the 
question.  She  wras  gazing  out  straight 
before  her,  as  if  seeing  something  at 
a  distance, — something  in  the  future. 
"  I  think  of  it  and  of  its  uncertainty  a 
great  deal,"  slie  presently  said.  "  If 
I  can  only  get  away ;  if  I  can  only 
keep  up  sufficiently  to  get  away,  I  can 
lie  down  in  my  berth  always.  And 
if  I  do  die  before  I  reach  India, 
George  will  be  with  me." 

"  Child  !"  almost  sharply  interrupt- 
ed Janet,  "wdiat  are  you  saying  ?" 

She  seemed  scarcely  to  hear  the  in- 
terruption. She  sat,  gazing  still,  her 
white  and  trembling  hands  lying  clasp- 
ed on  her  black  dress,  and  she  re- 
sumed, as  if  pursuing  the  train  of 
thought. 

"  My  great  dread  is,  lest  I  should 
not  keep  up  to  get  to  London,  to  be 
taken  on  board, — lest  George  should, 
after  all,  be  obliged  to  sail  without  me. 
It  is  always  on  my  mind,  Janet;  it 
makes  me  dream  constantly  that  the 
ship  is  gone  and  I  am  left  behind.  I 
wish  I  did  not  have  those  dreams." 


402 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


"  Come  to  Lady  Godolphin's  Folly, 
Maria,"  persuasively  spoke  Bessy. 
"  It  will  be  the  very  best  thing  to 
cheat  you  of  these  fears.  They  all 
arise  from  weakness." 

"  Yes,  I  say  so  to  myself  in  the 
daytime  ;  that  those  night  fancies  are 
only  the  result  of  weakness,"  acqui- 
esced Maria,  who  appeared  to  rouse 
up  from  her  dreamy  thought  at  Bes- 
sy's remark.  "But  I  am  not  well 
enough  to  go  to  the  Folly,  Bessy. 
Margery  can  tell  you  how  ill  I  am 
every  night,  after  I  wake  out  of  those 
fever-dreams.  The  first  night  they 
fetched  Mr.  Snow  to  me,,  for  I  faint- 
ed." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Janet,  soothingly 
and  quietly,  "the  change  to  the  sea 
air,  to  the  altogether  different  life  of 
the  voyage,  may  restore  you  to  health 
and  strength  in  an  incredibly  short 
time." 

"  At  times  I  think  it  may,"  answer- 
ed Maria.  "I  had  a  pleasant  dream 
one  night,"  she  added,  with  some  ani- 
mation. "  I  thought  we  had  arrived 
in  safety,  and  I  and  George  and  Meta 
were  sitting  under  a  tree  whose  leaves 
were  larger  than  an  umbrella.  It  was 
so  hot,  but  these  leaves  shaded  us, 
and  I  seemed  to  be  well,  for  we  were 
all  laughing  merrily  together.  It  may 
come  true,  you  know,  Janet." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Janet.  "  Are  you 
preparing  much  for  the  voyage  ?" 

"  Not  yet.  Things  can  be  had  so 
quickly  now.  George  talked  it  over 
with  me  when  he  was  down,  and  we 
decided  to  send  a  list  to  the  outfitter's, 
just  before  we  sailed,  so '  that  the 
things  might  not  come  down  here,  but 
be  packed  in  London." 

"  And  Margery  V  asked  Janet. 
"I  do  not  know  what  she  means  to 
do,"  answered  Maria,  shaking  her 
head.  "  She  protests  ten  times'  a  day 
that  she  will  not  go  ;  but  I  see  she  is 
carefully  mending  up  all  her  cotton 
gowns,  and  one  day  I  heard  her  say 
to  Meta  that  she  supposed  nothing 
was  bearable  but  cotton  on  a  body's 
back  out  there.  What  I  should  do 
without  Margery  on  the  voyage,  I 
don't  like  to  think.     George  told  her 


to  consider  of  it,  and  give  us  her  de- 
cision when  he  next  came  down.  And 
you,  Janet  ?  When  shall  you  be  back 
at  Prior's  Ash  ?" 

"  I  do  not  suppose  I  shall  ever  come 
back  to  it,"  was  Janet's  answer.  "  Its 
reminiscences  will  not  be  so  pleasing 
to  me  that  I  should  seek  to  renew  my 
acquaintance  with  it.  What  have  I 
left  here  now  ?  Nothing,  save  the 
grave  of  Thomas,  and  of  my  father 
and  mother.  Cecilia  has  her  new 
ties  :  and  Bessy  can  come  to  see  me 
in  Scotland." 

"  Bexley  attends  you,  I  hear." 

"Yes.  My  aunt's  old  servant  has 
got  beyond  his  work, — he  has  been 
forty-two  years  in  the  family,  Maria, 

— and  Bexley  will  replace  him.     I 

What  is  it,  child  ?" 

Janet  turned  to  Meta,  who  was 
making  a  great  commotion.  In  search- 
ing in  a  deep  basket  for  some  doll's 
clothes  to  show  to  Bessy,  she  had  come 
upon  a  charming  frock  elaborately 
braided,  which  was  decidedly  too  big 
for  the  doll.  Of  course  Meta  jumped 
to  the  conclusion  that  it  must  be  for 
herself,  and  she  was  just  as  fond  of 
finery  as  are  other  women  in  embryo. 
Dragging  the  material  from  its  place, 
she  flew  over  to  her  mamma,  asking 
whether  it  was  not  hers,  and  when 
she  might  put  it  on,  utterly  regardless 
of  two  long  streams  of  braid  which 
trailed  after  it. 

Ah,  how  sick  did  Maria  turn  with 
the  sight, — with  the  remembrance  it 
brought  to  her !  That  long  past  day, 
the  last  of  her  happiness,  when  she 
had  been  working  quickly  to  finish 
the  frock,  rose  vividly  before  her 
mind's  eye.  She  saw  herself  sitting 
there,  in  her  own  pleasant  morning- 
room  at  the  bank,  blithely  plying  her 
needle  in  her  unconscious  peace,  know- 
ing nothing  of  those  ominous  shutters 
that  were  being  drawn  over  the  bank- 
windows.  What  with  sickness  of  heart 
and  of  body,  Maria  had  never  had 
courage  to  bring  the  frock  to  light 
since,  or  to  attempt  to  finish  it. 

"  Put  it  up  again,  Meta,"  she  said, 
faintly. 

"  But  Bessy  had  laid  hold  of  it, — 


THE      SnADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT. 


403 


industrious,  practical  Bessy.  "  Let 
me  linish  this  for  you,  Maria.  It  will 
be  a  nice  cool  frock  for  il\e  child  in 
India.  Dear  me  I  there's  not  above 
an  hour  or  two's  work  wanted  at  it. 
I'll  take  it  home  with  me." 

Maria  murmured  something  about 
the  trouble  that  came  upon  her,  the 
illness  that  supervened  upon  it,  as  a 
lame  attempt  at  apology.  She  was 
aware  that  unfinished  work,  lying  by 
indefinitely,  was  little  less  than  a  car- 
dinal sin  in  the  eyes  of  methodical 
Janet.  Bessy  folded  it  up  to  take 
with  her,  and  Janet  rose. 

"No,  stay  where  you  are,  child," 
she  said,  bending  over  Maria,  who 
was  then  lying  back  in  her  chair, 
looking  grievously  wan  and  ill  "I 
can  say  good-by  to  you  as  you  lie 
there.  Take  this,  my  dear,"  she  whis- 
pered.    "  It  is  for  yourself." 

Janet  had  slipped  four  sovereigns 
into  her  hand.  Maria's  face  turned 
crimson.  "  You  need  not  scruple, 
Maria.  It  is  superfluous  in  my  purse. 
My  aunt  sent  me  a  handsome  present 
for  mourning  and  traveling  expenses, 
— a  great  deal  more  than  I  want." 

"  Indeed  I  have  enough  too,  Janet. 
George  left  me  five  pounds  when  he 
was  at  home,  and  it  is  not  half  gone. 
You  don't  know  what  a  little  keeps 
us.  I  eat  next  to  nothing,  and  Mar- 
gery, I  think,  lives  chiefly  upon  por- 
ridge :  there's  only  Meta." 

"  But  you  ought  to  eat,  child  !" 

"  I  can't  eat,"  said  Maria.  "  I  have 
never  lost  that  pain  in  my  throat." 

"  What  pain  ?"  asked  Janet. 

"  I  do  not  know.  It  came  on  with 
that  trouble.  I  feel, — I  feel  always  ill 
within  me,  Janet.  I  seem  to  be  al- 
ways shivering  inwardly ;  and  the 
pain  in  the  throat  is  sometimes  better, 
sometimes  worse,  but  it  never  goes 
quite  away." 

Janet  looked  at  her  searchingly. 
She  heard  the  meek,  resigned  tone, 
she  saw  the  white  and  wan  face,  the 
attenuate  hands,  the  chest  rising  with 
every  passing  emotion,  the  sad,  mourn- 
ful look  in  the  sweet  eyes,  and  for  the 
first  time  a  suspicion  that  another  life 


would  shortly  have  to  go,  took  pos- 
session of  Miss  Godolphin. 

"  What  is  George  at,  that  he  is  not 
here  to  see  after  you  ?"  she  asked,  in 
a  strangely  severe  accent. 

"  He  cannot  bear  Prior's  Ash,  Ja- 
net," whispered  Maria.  "  But  for  me 
and  Thomas  he  never  would  have 
come  back  to  it.  And  I  suppose  he 
is  busy  in  London :  there  must  be 
many  arrangements  to  make." 

Janet  stopped  and  gravely  kissed 
her, — kissed  her  twice.  "  Take  care 
of  yourself,  my  dear,  and  do  all  you 
can  to  keep  your  mind  tranquil  and 
to  get  your  strength  up.  You  shall 
hear  from  me  before  your  departure." 

Margery  stood  in  the  little  hall. 
Miss  Bessy  Godolphin  was  in  the 
garden,  in  full  chase  after  that  rebel- 
lious damsel,  Meta,  who  had  made  a 
second  escape  through  the  opened 
door,  passing  angry  Margery  and  the 
outstretched  hand  that  would  have 
made  a  prisoner  of  her,  with  a  gleeful 
laugh  of  defiance.  Miss  Godolphin 
stopped  to  address  Margery. 

"  Shall  you  go  to  India  or  not, 
Margery  ?" 

"  I'm  just  a'most  tore  in  two  about 
it,  ma'am,"  was  the  answer,  delivered 
confidentially.  "Without  me  that  child 
would  never  reach  tother  side  alive  : 
she'd  be  clambering  up  the  sides  o' 
the  ship  and  get  drounded  ten  times 
over  afore  they  got  there.  Look  at 
her  now  !  And  who'd  take  care  of 
her  over  there,  among  them  native 
beasts, — them  elephants  and  them 
black  people  ?  If  I  thought  she'd 
ever  come  to  be  waited  on  by  a  black 
animal  of  a  woman  with  a  vellow 
cover  to  her  head  and  woolly  hair,  I 
should  be  fit  to  smother  her  afore  she 
went  out.  Miss  Janet,  I'd  like  much 
to  talk  that  and  some  other  matters 
over  with  you,  if  you'd  got  half  an 
hour  to  spare  me  afore  you  start," 

"  Yery  well,  Margery.  Perhaps 
you  can  come  to  Ashlydyat  to-night. 
I  am  going,  you  know,  by  to-morrow's 
early  train.  Margery,"  she  more  se- 
riously added,  "your  mistress  appears 
to  want  the  greatest  care." 


404 


TIIE       SHADOW       OF       ASHLYDYAT, 


"  She  have  wanted  that  a  long 
while,"  was  Margery's  composed  an- 
swer. 

"  She  ought  to  have  every  thing 
strengthening  in  great  plenty.  Wine 
and  other  necessaries  requisite  for  the 
sick." 

"  I  suppose  she  ought,"  said  Mar- 
gery. "  But  she  won't  take  'em,  Miss 
Janet ;  she  says  she  can't  eat  and 
drink.  And  for  the  matter  of  that, 
we  have  got  nothing  of  that  sort  for 
her  to  take.  There  was  more  good 
things  consumed  in  the  bank  in  a  day 
than  we  should  see  in  a  month  now." 
"  Where's  your  master  ?"  repeated 
Janet,  in  an  accent  not  less  sharp 
than  the  one  she  had  used  for  the 
same  question  to  Maria. 

"  He  !"  cried  wrathful  Margery,  for 
the  subject  was  sure  to  put  her  un- 
commonly out,  in  the  strong  opinion 
she  was  pleased  to  hold  touching  her 
master's  shortcomings.  "  I  suppose 
he's  riding  about  with  his  choice  friend, 
Madam  Pain.  Folks  talks  of  their 
two  horses  being  seen  abreast  pretty 
often." 

There  was  no  opportunity  for  fur- 
ther colloquy.     Bessy  came  in,  carry- 
ing the  shrieking,   laughing  truant ; 
and  Margery,  with  a  tart  word  to  the 
young  lady,  and  a  jerk  of  the  little 
arm  by  way  of  reminder,  attended  the 
Miss    Godolphins  down  the   garden- 
path  to  throw  open  the  gate  for  them. 
In  her  poor  way,  in  her  solitary  self, 
Margery  strove  to  make  up  for  the 
state  they  had  been  accustomed  to, 
when  the  ladies  called  from  Ashlydyat. 
Maria,  lying  motionless  on  the  sofa, 
where,  on  being  left  alone,  she  had 
thrown  herself   in   weariness,    heard 
Margery's    gratuitous   remark    about 
Mrs.  Pain  through  the  unlatched  door, 
and  a  contraction  of  pain  arose  to  her 
brow.     In  her  hand  lay  the  four  sov- 
ereigns left  there  by  Janet.   She  looked 
at  them  musingly,  and  then  murmured, 
"  I  can  afford  to  give  her  half."  When 
Margery  returned  in-doors,  she  called 
her  in. 

"  You  are  not  very  busy  this  after- 
noon are  you,  Margery  ?" 

Margery  grunted  out  her  answer. 


Not  so  overbusy,  perhaps  ;  but  for 
the  matter  of  that  there  was  always 
plenty  to  do. 

"  Can  you  go  down  as  far  as  the  - 
Pollard  cottages  ?"  resumed  Maria. 
"  I  wish  very  much  to  see  Mrs.  Bond, 
Margery.  Ask  her  to  come  up  here. 
It  will  be  a  nice  walk  for  you  and 
Meta." 

Margery  looked  dubious.  The  wind 
was  in  the  east,  and  would  blow 
sharply  on  her  darling :  and  that  Dame 
Bond,  in  Margery's  opinion,  was  bet- 
ter in  her  own  house  than  in  theirs. 
But  she  made  no  remonstrance. 
Crusty  as  she  appeared  to  be  in  tem- 
per, she  was  a  better  servant  than  to 
attempt  to  dispute  her  mistress's  will, 
and  she  dressed  herself  and  Meta  and 
started. 

But  no  sooner  had  they  gone  than 
they  were  back  again,  and  Mrs.  Bond 
with  them,  for  they  had  discerned  that 
respected  lady  sailing  along,  almost 
immediately  after  quitting  the  house. 
Yery  steady  on  her  legs  was  Mrs. 
Bond  to-day :  her  face  had  a  pinched 
look,  and  her  thin  shawl  and  wretched 
old  black  gown  were  drawn  tight 
round  her  to  protect  her,  so  far  as 
might  be,  from  the  early  winter's 
cold.  Margery  eyed  her  critically, 
and  with  a  sniff  which  really  might 
have  been  taken  to  express  a  sort  of 
satisfaction,  crossed  the  road,  holding 
Meta  by  the  hand. 

"Now,  Dame  Bond!  where  be  vou 
off  to  ?" 

Dame  Bond,  of  humble  mind  when 
not  exalted  by  extraneous  adjuncts, 
dropped  a  curtsey  to  Margery  and  an- 
other to  Miss  Meta.  She  heered  the 
ladies  at  t'other  end  of  the  town  was 
a  putting  down  the  names  for  the  coal 
charity  a'ready,  and  she  was  a-going 
to  see  if  she  couldn't  get  hers  put  down 
among  'em, — they  refused  her  last 
year.  Goodness  know'd  as  she'd  need 
of  it. 

"Well,  Mrs.  George  Godolphin 
wants  to  speak  to  you,  so  you'd  bet- 
ter come  to  her  at  once,"  said  Mar- 
gery. "And  take  care  of  your  beha- 
viour when  you  be  in  her  presence," 
she  sharply  added. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


405 


There  was  not  altogether  need  to 
give  that  injunction  to-day.  Mrs. 
Bond,  on  her  meekest  and  civilest  be- 
havior, stood  before  Maria,  who  rose 
up  from  her  sofa,  and  kindly  invited 
her  to  a  chair.  Then  she  put  two 
sovereigns  in  her  hand. 

"  It  is  the  first  instalment  of  my 
debt  to  you,  Mrs.  Bond.  If  I  live,  I 
will  pay  it  you  all,  but  it  will  be  by 
degrees.  *  And  perhaps  that  is  the 
best  way  that  you  could  receive  it.  I 
wish  I  could  have  given  you  some  be- 
fore. " 

Mrs.  Bond  burst  into  tears, — not 
the  crocodile  tears  that  she  was  some- 
what in  the  habit  of  favoring  the 
world  with  when  not  entirely  herself, 
but  real,  genuine  tears  of  gratitude. 
She  had  given  up  all  hope  of  the  ten 
pounds,  did  not  look  to  receive  a  pen- 
ny-piece of  it,  and  the  joy  overcame 
her.  Her  conscience  pricked  her  a 
little  also,  for  she  remembered  sundry 
hard  words  she  had  at  one  time  lib- 
erally regaled  her  neighbors'  ears  with, 
touching  Mrs.  George  Godolphin.  In 
her  grateful  repentance,  she  could 
have  knelt  at  Maria's  feet, — hunger 
and  other  ills  of  poverty  had  tended 
to  subdue  her  spirit. 

"  May  the  good  Lord  bless  and  re- 
pay ye,  ma'am, — and  send  you  a  safe 
journey  to  the  far-off  place  where  I 
hear  ye  be  a-going  !" 

"Yes,  I  shall  go  if  lam  well  enough," 
replied  Maria.  "  It  is  from  there  that 
I  shall  send  you  home  some  money 
from  time  to  time  as  I  can.  Have  you 
been  well  lately  ?" 

"As  well  as  pretty  nigh  clamming 
'11  let  me  be,  ma'am.  Things  has  gone 
hard  with  me  :  many  a  day  I've  not 
had  as  much  as  a  mouldy  crust.  But 
this  -'11  set  me  up  again,  and,  ma'am, 
1*11  never  cease  to  pray  for  ye." 

"  Don't  spend  it  in — in — you  know, 
Mrs.  Bond,"  Maria  ventured  timidly 
to  advise,  in  a  lowered  voice. 

Mrs.  Bond  shook  her  head  and 
turned  up  her  eyes  by  way  of  express- 
ing a  very  powerful  negative.  Prob- 
ably she  did  not  feel  altogether  com- 
fortable in  the  subject,  for  she  hastened 
to  quit  it. 


"  Have  ye  heard  the  news  about  old 
Jekyl,  ma'am  ?" 

"No.     What  news?" 

"  He  be  dead.  He  went  off  at  one 
o'clock  this  a'ternoon.  He  fretted 
continual  after  his  money,  folks  says, 
and  it  wore  him  down  to  a  skeleton. 
He  couldn't  a-bear  to  be  living  upon 
his  sons,  and  Jonathan,  he  don't  earn 
enough  for  himself  now,  and  the  old 
'un  felt  it." 

Somebody  else  was  feeling  it.  Fret- 
ting continually  after  his  money  ! — 
that  money  which  might  never  have 
been  placed  in  the  bank  but  for  her ! 
Poor  Maria  pressed  her  fingers 
upon  her  aching  forehead ;  and  Mrs. 
Bond  plunged  into  another  item  of 
news. 

"Them  Hardings  be  bankrups." 

"  Harding  the  undertaker  ?"  cried 
Maria,  quickly. 

"  They  be,  ma'am.  The  shop  were 
shut  up  as  close  as  a  dungeon  when  I 
come  by  it  just  now,  and  a  man,  what 
was  standing  there  a-staring  at  it,  said 
as  he  heered  it  'ud  go  hard  with  'em. 
There  ain't  nothing  but  trouble  in  the 
world  now,  ma'am,  for  some." 

No,  nothing  but  trouble  for  some, — 
Maria  felt  the  truth  to  her  heart  of 
hearts.  The  remembrance  of  the  in- 
terview she  had  held  with  Mrs.  Hard- 
ing, and  what  had  been  said  at  it,  was 
very  present  to  her. 

Perhaps  it  was  well  that  a  diver- 
tisement  occurred.  Miss  Meta,  who 
had  been  up-stairs  with  Margery  to 
have  her  things  taken  off,  came  in  in 
her  usual  flying  fashion,  went  straight 
up  to  the  visitor,  and  leaned  her 
pretty  arm  upon  the  snuffy  black 
gown. 

"  W^hen  shall  I  come  and  see  the 
parrot  ?" 

"  The  parrot !  Lawks  bless  the 
child  !  I  haven't  got  the  parrot  now, 
I  haven't  had  him  for  this  many  a 
day.  I  couldn't  let  Mm  clam,"  she 
continued,  turning  to  Maria.  "  I  was 
a  clamming  myself,  ma'am,  and  I 
sold  him,  cage  and  all,  just  as  he 
stood." 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  asked  Meta,  look- 
ing disappointed 


406 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


"  Where  he  went,"  lucidly  explained 
Mrs.  Bond.  "  It  were  the  lady  up  at 
the  tother  end  o'  the  town,  beyond  the 
parson's,  what  bought  him,  ma'am. 
Leastways  her  daughter  did, — sister 
to  her  what  was  once  to  have  married 
Mr.  Godolphin.      It's  a  white  house." 

"Lady  Sarah  Grame's,"  said  Ma- 
ria.    "  Did  she  buy  the  parrot  ?" 

"Miss  did;  that  cross-looking 
daughter  of  her'n.  She  see  him  as 
she  was  a  going  by  my  door  one  day, 
ma'am,  and  she  stopped  and  looked  at 
him,  and  asked  me  what  I'd  sell  him 
for.  Well,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
I  said  five  shilling;  for  I'd  not  a  half- 
penny in  the  place  to  buy  him  food, 
and  for  days  and  days  he  had  had  only 
what  the  neighbors  brought  him, — but 
it  warn't  half  his  worth.  And  miss 
was  all  wild  to.  buy  him,  but  her 
mother  wasn't;  she  didn't  want 
screeching  birds  in  her  house,  she 
said  ;  and  they  had. a  desperate  qua'r- 
rcl  in  my  kitchen  afore  they  went 
away.  Didn't  she  call  her  mother 
names  !  She's  a  vixen,  that  daughter, 
if  ever  there  were  one.  But  she  got 
her  will,  for,  an  hour  or  two  after  that, 
a  young  woman  came  down  for  the 
parrot  with  the  five  shillings  in  her 
hand.     And  there's  where  he  is." 

"I  shall  have  twenty  parrots  when 
I  go  to  India,"  struck  in  Meta. 

"  What  a  sight  o'  food  they'll  eat  !" 
ejaculated  Mrs.  Bond.  "  That  there 
one  o'  mine  eats  his  fill  now.  I  made 
bold  one  day  to  go  up  and  ask  after 
him,  and  the  two  young  women  in  the 
kitchen  took  me  to  the  room  to  see 
him,  the  ladies  being  out,  and  he  had 
got  his  tin  stuffed  full  o'  seed.  He 
knoAved  me  again,  he  did,  and 
screeched  out  to.  be  heerd  a  mile  off. 
The  young  women  said  that  what 
with  his  screeching  and  the  two  ladies 
quarrelling,  the  house  weren't  a  bear- 
able sometimes." 

Meta's  large  eyes  were  wide  open 
in  wondering  speculation.  "  Why  do 
they  quarrel  ?"  she  asked. 


"  'Cause  it's  their  natur,"  returned 
Mrs.  Bond.  "  The  one  what  had 
the  sweet  natur  was  took,  and  the 
two  cranky  ones  was  left.  Them 
young  women  said  that  miss  a'most 
druv  t'other,  my  lady,  mad  with  her 
temper,  and  they  expected  nothing 
less  but  there'd  be  blows  some  day. 
A  fine  disgraceful  thing  to  say  o' 
born  ladies,  ain't  it,  ma'am  ?" 

Maria  in  her  delicacy  of  feeling 
would  not  iudorse  the  remark  of 
Dame  Bond.  But  the  state  of  things 
at  Lady  Sarah  Grame's  was  perfectly 
well  known  at  Prior's  Ash.  Do  you 
remember  an  observation  made  by 
Mr.  Snow  to  Thomas  Godolphin, 
when  he  was  speaking  of  Lady 
Sarah's  cruel  unkindness  to  Ethel ! 
"  She'll  be  brought  to  her  senses,  un- 
less I  am  mistaken  :  she  has  lost  her 
treasure  and  kept  her  bane.  A  year 
or  two  more,  and  that's  what  Sarah 
Anne  will  be." 

It  was  precisely  what  Sarah  Anne 
Grame  had  become, — her  mother's 
bane.  A  miserable  bane  !  to  herself, 
to  her  mother,  to  all  about  her.  And 
the  "  screeching"  parrot  had  only 
added  a  little  more  noise  to  an  already 
too  noisy  house. 

Mrs.  Bond  curtseyed  herself  out. 
She  met  Margery  in  the  passage,  and 
stopped  to  whisper. 

"  I  say  !  how  ill  she  do  look  !" 

"Who  looks  ill?"  was  the  ungra- 
cious demand. 

Mrs.  Bond  gave  her  head  a  nod 
sideways  towards  the  parlor-door. 
"The  missis.  Her. face  looks  more 
as  if  it  had  got  death  writ  in  it,  nor 
voyage  going." 

"  Perhaps  you'll  walk  on  your  road, 
Dame  Bond,  and  keep  your  opinions 
till  they're  asked  for,"  was  the  tart 
reply  of  Margery. 

But  in  point  of  fact  the  ominous 
words  had  darted  into  the  faithful  ser- 
vant's heart,  piercing  it  as  a  poisoned 
arrow.  It  seemed  such  a  confirma- 
tion of  her  own  fears. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      AS  II  L  YD  Y  AT, 


407 


CHAPTER    LXVIII. 

COMMOTION   AT   ASHLYDYAT. 

A  few  days  went  on,  and  they 
wrought  a  rapid  change  in  Mrs. 
George  Godolphin.  She  grew  weak- 
er and  weaker  :  she  grew — -it  was  ap- 
parent now  to  Mr.  Snow  as  it  was  to 
Margery — nearer  and  nearer  to  that 
vault  in  the  churchyard  of  All  Souls. 
There  could  no  longer  be  any  inde- 
cision or  uncertainty  as  to  her  taking 
the  voyage  :  the  probabilities  were, 
that  before  the  ship  was  ready  to  sail 
all  sailing  in  this  world  for  Maria 
would  be  over.  And  rumors,  faint, 
doubtful,  very  much  discredited  ru- 
mors of  this  state  of  things,  began  to 
circulate  in  Prior's  Ash. 

Discredited  because  people  were  so 
unprepared  for  it.  Mrs.  George  Go- 
dolphin  had  been  delicate  since  the 
birth  of  her  baby,  as  was  known  to 
everybody,  but  not  a  soul,  relatives, 
friends,  or  strangers,  had  cast  a  sus- 
picion to  danger.  On  the  contrary, 
it  was  supposed  that  she  was  about  to 
depart  on  that  Indian  voyage  :  and 
ill-natured  spirits  jerked  up  their 
heads  and  said  it  was  fine  to  be  Mrs. 
George  Godolphin,  to  tumble  upon 
her  legs  again  and  go  out  to  lead  a 
grand  life  in  India,  after  ruining  half 
Prior's  Ash.  How  she  was  mis- 
judged !  how  many  more  unhappy 
wives  have  been,  and  will  be  again, 
misjudged  by  the  world  ! 

One  dreary  afternoon,  as  the  dusk 
was  coming  on,  Margery,  not  stop- 
ping, or  perhaps  not  caring  to  put  any 
thiug  upon  herself,  but  having  hastily 
wrapped  up  Miss  Meta,  Avent  quickly 
down  the  garden-path,  leading  that 
excitable  and  chattering  demoiselle  fey 
the  hand.  Curious  news  had  reached 
the  ears  of  Margery.  Their  landlady's 
son  had  come  in,  describing  the  town 
as  being  in  a  strange  commotion  in 
consequence  of  something  which  had 
happened  at  Ashlydyat.  Rumor  set 
it  down  as  nothing  less  than  murder ; 
and  according  to  the  boy's  account,  all 
Prior's  Ash  was  flocking  up  to  the 
place  to  see  and  to  hear. 


Margery  turned  wrathful  at  the 
news.  Murder  at  Ashlydyat  !  The 
young  gentleman  was  too  big  to  be 
boxed  or  shaken  for  saying  it,  but  he 
persisted  in  his  story,  and  Margery 
in  her  curiosity  went  out  to  see  with 
her  own  eyes.  "  The  people  are  run- 
ning past  the  top  of  this  road  in 
crowds,"  he  said  to  her. 
.  Not  in  "crowds,"  certainly.  Tongues 
are  exaggeratory  as  rumor  is  false. 
When  Margery  reached  the  top  of  the 
road,  several  idlers  undoubtedly  were 
hastening  past  in  the  direction  of  Ash- 
lydyat, but  not  so  very  many.  Mar- 
gery, pouncing  upon  one  and  upon 
another,  contrived  to  obtain  a  pretty 
correct  account  of  the  actual  facts. 

For  some  days  past,  workmen  had 
been  employed,  digging  up  the  Dark 
Plain  by  the  orders  of  Lord  Averil. 
As  he  had  told  Cecil  weeks  before,  his 
intention  was  completely  to  renovate 
it ;  to  do  away  entirely  with  its  past 
ill-character  and  send  its  superstition 
to  the  winds.  The  archway  was  being 
taken  down,  the  gorse-bushes  were 
being  uprooted,  the  whole  surface,  in 
fact,  was  being  dug  up.  He  intended 
to  build  an  extensive  summer-house 
where  the  archway  had  been,  and  to 
make  the  plain  a  flower-garden,  a 
playground  for  children  when  they 
should  be  born  to  Ashlydyat :  and  it 
appeared  that  in  digging  that  after- 
noon under  the  archway,  the  men  had 
come  upon  a  human  skeleton,  or 
rather  upon  the  bones  of  what  had 
once  been  a  skeleton.  This  was  the 
whole  foundation  for  the  rumor  and 
the  "murder." 

As  Margery  stood,  about  to  turn 
home  again,  vexed  for  having  been 
brought  out  in  the  cold  for  nothing 
more,  and  intending  to  give  a  few 
complimentary  thanks  for  it  to  the 
young  man  who  had  been  the  means 
of  sending  her,  she  was  accosted  by 
Mr.  Crosse.  That  gentleman,  whose 
residence  was  situated  about  three  miles 
from  Prior's  Ash,  had  been  living  at 
it  since  his  return,  the  night  you  saw 
him  coming  from  the  rail  when  he 
was  met  by  Charlotte  Pain.  He  had 
been    frequently   at   Ashlydyat,    had 


408 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


been  a  closer  friend  of  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin's  than  ever;  but  not  the 
slightest  notice  had  he  taken  of  George 
or  his  wife.  His  opinion  of  George 
was  about  as  bad  as  it  could  be,  and 
he  did  not  seek  to  conceal  it.  How 
he  would  have  reconciled  himself  to 
meet  him  at  the  funeral,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  say,  but  circumstances  pre- 
vented Mr.  Crosse's  attendance  at  it. 
For  a  day  or  two  before  Thomas  Go- 
dolphin's  death  and  a  week  after  it,  he 
was  laid  up  with  gout,  and  unable  to 
leave  his  house.  Now  he  was  out 
again. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Margery  ?"  he  said, 
lifting  up  Meta  at  the  same  time  to 
kiss  her  ;  for  the  young  lady  had  been 
an  uncommon  favorite  of  his  in  the 
old  days  at  the  bank,  and  he  used  to 
lavish  presents  upon  her,  just  for  the 
sake  of  watching  her  delight  at  their 
reception.  "Are  you  going  up  to 
Ashlydyat  with  the  rest  ?" 

"  Not  I,  the  simpletons  I"  was  Mar- 
gery's free  rejoinder.  "  I'll  be  bound 
it's  nothing  but  the  bones  of  some 
poor  old  donkey  that  they've  found, — 
the  animals  used  to  stray  sometimes 
on  to  the  Dark  Plain.  And  me  to 
have  been  brought  out  from  home  by 
their  folly,  leaving  my  mistress  all 
alone  ! — and  she  not  in  a  state  to  be 
left." 

"  Is  she  ill  ?"  asked  Mr.  Crosse. 

"  111  !"  returned  Margery,  not  at  all 
pleased  at  the  question.  "Yes,  sir, 
she  is  ill.  I  thought  everybody  knew 
that," 

"  When  does  she  start  for  India  ?" 

"  She  don't  start  at  all.  She'll  be 
starting  soon  fur  a  place  a  little  bit 
nearer.  Here  !  you  run  on  and  open 
the  gate,"  added  Margery,  whisking 
Meta  from  Mr.  Crosse's  hand  and 
sending  her  down  the  lane  out  of  hear- 
ing. "  She'll  soon  be  where  Mr. 
Thomas  Godolphin  is,  sir,  instead  of 
being  marched  off  in  a  ship  to  India," 
continued  the  woman,  turning  to  Mr. 
Crosse,  confidentially. 

He  felt  greatly  shocked.  In  his 
own  mind,  he,  as  many  others,  had 
associated  Maria  with  her  husband, 
in  regard  to  the  summer's  work,  in  a 


lofty,  scornful,  hold-myself-off  sort  of 
way:  but' it  did  shock  him  to  hear 
that  she  was  in  fear  of  death.  It  is 
most  wonderful  how  our  feelings 
towards  others  soften  when  we  find 
they  and  their  shortcomings  are  about 
to  be  taken  from  us  to  a  more  merci- 
ful Judge. 

"But  what  is  the  matter  with  her, 
Margery  ?"  Mr.  Crosse  asked  ;  for  it 
happened  that  he  had  not  heard  the 
ominous  rumors  that  were  beginning 
to  circulate  in  Prior's  Ash. 

"/  don't  know  what's  the  matter 
with  her,"  returned  Margery.  "I 
don't  believe  old  Snow  knows  it, 
either.  I  suppose  the  worry  and  mis- 
fortunes have  been  too  much  for  her, 
— that  she  couldn't  bear  up  again  'em. 
They  fell  upon  nobody,  unless  it  was 
Mr.  Thomas  Godolphin,  as  they  have 
fell  upon  her,  and  she's  just  one  to 
break  her  heart  over  'em.  She  and 
him  have  been  expiating  another's 
folly:  he  is  in  his  grave,  and  she's 
a-going  to  it," 

Mr.  Crosse  walked  mechanically 
by  the  side  of  Margery  down  the  lane. 
It  was  not  his  way,  and  perhaps  he 
was  unconscious  that  he  took  it ;  he 
walked  by  her  side,  listening. 

"  He'll  have  to  go  by  himself  now, 
— and  me  to  have  been  getting  up  all 
my  cotton  gowns  for  the  start !  Serve 
him  right !  for  ever  thinking  of  taking 
out  that  dear  little  lamb  amid  ele- 
phants and  savages  !" 

Mr.  Crosse  was  perfectly  aware 
that  Margery  alluded  to  her  master, — 
his  own  bete  noire  since  the  explosion. 
But  he  did  not  choose  to  descant  upon 
his  gracelessness  to  Margery.  "  Can 
nothing  be  done  for  Mrs.  George  Go- 
dolphin ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  expect  not,  sir.  There's  nothing 
the  matter  with  her  that  can  belaid  hold 
of,"  resentfully  spoke  Margery,  "  no 
malady  to  treat.  Snow  says  he  can't 
do  any  thing,  and  he  brought  Dr. 
Beale  in  the  other  day  ;  and  it  seems 
he  can't  do  nothing,  either." 

Meta  had  gained  the  gate,  flung  it 
open  in  obedience  to  orders,  and  now 
came  running  back.  Mr.  Crosse  took 
her  hand  and  went  on  with  her.   Was 


TUE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


409 


he  purposing  to  pay  a  visit  to  George 
Godolphin's  wife  ?     It  seemed  so. 

It  was  quite  dusk  when  they  en- 
tered. Maria  was  lying  on  the  sofa, 
with  a  warm  woolen  coverlid  drawn 
over  her.  There  was  no  light  in  the 
room  save  that  given  out  by  the  fire, 
but  its  blaze  fell  directly  on  her  face. 
Mr.  Crosse  stood  and  looked  at  it, 
shocked  at  the  ravages,  at  the  tale  it 
told.  All  kinds  of  unpleasant  pricks 
were  sending  their  darts  through  his 
conscience.  He  had  been  holding 
himself  aloof  in  his  assumed  superi- 
ority, his  haughty  condemnation, 
while  she  had  been  going  to  the  grave 
with  her  breaking  heart. 

Had  she  wanted  things  that  money 
could  procure  ?  had  she  wanted  food? 
Mr.  Crosse  actually  began  to  ask  him- 
self the  question,  as  the  wan  aspect 
of  the  white  face  grew  and  grew  upon 
him :  and  in  the  moment  he  quite 
loathed  the  thought  of  his  well-stored 
coffers.  He  remembered  what  a  good, 
loving,  gentle  woman  this  wife  of 
George  Godolphin's  had  always  been, 
this  dutiful  daughter  of  All  Souls' 
pastor :  and  for  the  first  time  Mr. 
Crosse  began  to  separate  her  from  her 
husband's  misdoings,  to  awake  to  the 
conviction  that  the  burden  and  sorrow 
laid  upon  her  had  been  enough  to 
bear,  without  the  world  meting  out 
its  harsh  measure  of  blame  by  way  of 
increase. 

He  sat  down  quite  humbly,  saying 
"  hush"  to  Meta.  Maria  had  dropped 
into  one  of  those  delirious  sleeps : 
they  came  on  more  frequently  now, 
and  would  visit  her  at  the  dusk  hour  of 
the  evening  as  well  as  at  night ;  and 
the  noise  of  their  entrance  had  failed 
to  arouse  her.  Margery,  however, 
came  bustling  in. 

"It's  Mr.  Crosse,  ma'am." 

She  partially  awoke.  Only  partially  : 
turned  on  the  pillow,  opened  her  eyes, 
and  held  out  her  hand.  He  leaned 
over  her,  and  spoke  in  a  very  kind 
voice  as  he  took  it. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  to  see  you  like  this, 
Mrs  George  Godolphin.  I  had  no 
idea  you  were  so  ill.  Is  there  any 
thing  I  can  do  for  you  ?" 


"If  I  could  pay  Mrs.  Bond,"  she 
answered.  "  She  is  so  poor !  If  I 
could  but  pay  her  before  the  ship 
sails  1" 

Mr.  Crosse  saw  the  state  of  things 
instantly, — that  she  was  under  the  in- 
fluence of  some  vivid  dream.  Mar- 
gery spoke  in  a  louder  key,  and  ad- 
vanced to  shake  up  the  sofa  pillow. 
"You'd  be  better  sitting  up,  ma'am. 
It's  Mr.  Crosse  :  don't  you  know  him  ? 
Me  and  the  child  met  him  out  there, 
and  he  come  in  with  us  to  see  you." 

It  had  the  desired  effect,  completely 
arousing  her  :  and  Maria,  a  faint  hec- 
tic of  surprise  coming  into  her  cheeks, 
sat  up  and  let  him  take  her  hand.  "  I 
am  glad  to  have  the  opportunity  of 
seeing  you  once  again,"  she  said. 

"  Why  did  you  not  send  and  tell  me 
how  ill  you  were  ?"  burst  forth  Mr. 
Crosse,  forgetting  how  exceedingly  ill 
such  a  procedure  would  have  accorded 
with  his  own  line  of  holding  aloft  in 
condemnatory  superiority. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  might, 
had  things  been  as  they  used  to  be. 
But  people  do  not  care  to  come  near 
me  now." 

"And  it  was  not  your  fault !"  cried 
Mr.  Crosse  in  his  heat,  in  his  self-re- 
proach. , 

"  No,  it  was  not  my  fault,"  she  sadly 
answered,  believing  he  had  spoken  it 
as  a  question.  "  I  knew  nothing  about 
it  any  more  than  the  greatest  stranger. 
The  blow  fell  upon  me  as  startlingly 
as  it  fell  upon  the  rest." 

"  I  am  going  in  the  ship,  Mr.  Crosse. 
I  am  going  to  ride  upon  an  elephant 
and  to  have  parrots.  I'm  going  to 
take  my  dolls." 

He  laid  his  hand  kindly  upon  the 
chattering  child  :  but  he  turned  to 
Maria,  his  voice  dropping  to  a  whis- 
per. "What  shall  you  do  with  her? 
Shall  you  send  her  out  without  you  V 

The  question  struck  upon  the  one 
chord  of  her  heart  that  for  the  last  day 
or  two,  since  her  own  hopeless  state 
grew  more  palpable,  had  been  strung 
to  the  utmost  tension.  What  was  to 
become  of  Meta, — of  the  cherished 
child  whom  she  must  leave  behind 
her  ?     Her  face  grew  moist,  her  bosom 


410 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


heaved,  and  she  suddenly  pressed  her 
hands  upon  it  as  if  they  could  still  its 
wild  and  painful  beating.  Mr.  Crosse, 
blaming  himself  for  asking  it,  blaming 
himself  for  many  other  things,  took 
her  hands  within  his  and  said  he  would 
come  in  and  see  her  in  the  morning, 
she  seemed  so  fatigued  then. 

But,  low  as  the  question  had  been 
put,  Miss  Meta  heard  it,— heard  it  and 
understood  its  purport.  Pely  upon  it, 
children  understand  far  more  than  we 
give  them  credit  for.  She  entwined 
her  pretty  arms  within  her  mamma's 
dress  as  Mr.  Crosse  went  out,  and 
raised  her  wondering  eyes. 

"What  did  he  mean?  You  are 
coming  too,  mamma  !•',' 

She  drew  the  little  upturned  face 
close  to  hers,  she  laid  her  white  cheek 
upon  the  golden  hair.  The  very  ex- 
cess of  pain  that  was  rending  her 
aching  heart  caused  her  to  speak  with 
ttimatUral  stillness.  Not  that  she  could 
speak  at  first ;  a  minute  or  two  had  to 
be  given  to  master  her  emotion. 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  Meta.  I  think 
God  is  going  to  take  me." 

The  child  made  no  reply.  Her  ear- 
nest eyes  were  kept  wide  open  with 
the  same  wondering  stare.  "  What 
will  papa  do  ?"  she  presently  asked. 

Maria  hastily  passed  her  hand  across 
her  brow,  as  if  that  recalled  another 
phaseof  the  pain.  Meta's  little  heart  be- 
gan to  swell,  and  the  tears  burst  forth. 

"Don't  go,  mamma!  Don't  go 
away  from  papa  and  Meta !  I  shall 
be  afraid  of  the  elephants  without 
you. " 

She  pressed  the  child  closer  and 
closer  to  her  beating  heart.  Oh,  the 
pain,  the  pain  ! — the  pain. of  the  part- 
ing that  was  so  soon  to  come  !  How 
she  beat  down  its  outward  signs,  how 
she  continued  to  speak  calmly,  sur- 
prised herself. 

"  Meta,  darling,  I  think  I  have  lately 
been  getting  in  spirit  nearer  and  nearer 
to  God, — as  Uncle  Thomas  got  near 
to  Him  ;  and  I  see  tilings  in  a  different 
light  from  what  I  had  used  to  see 
them.  I  do  not  suppose  you  will  go 
out  now  ;  but  if  you  should,  God  will 
take  care  of  you  amidst  the  elephants 


and  all  other  dangers.  I  am  asking 
Him  always  ;  and  I  know  He  will  take 
charge  of  you  here  Himself,  and  bring 
you  to  me  when  your  life  is  over. 
There  are  times,  Meta,  as  I  lie  here 
alone,  when  God  seems  to  be  quite 
close  to  me,  and  I  have  learned  that 
there  is  no  friend  on  earth  like  Him. 
Meta,  when  my  heart  is  ready  to 
break  at  leaving  you,  it  is  he  who 
whispers  to  me  that  I  may  trust  all  to 
Him.  He  is  listening  to  me  now, 
darling;  He  is  quite  close;  He  sees 
every  one  of  your  tears ;  He  knows 
that  I  can  scarcely  say  this  to  you  for 
my  aching  pain,  and  He  will  be  a  more 
loving  protector  to  my  little  mother- 
less girl  than  I  could  have  been.  I 
shall  be  up  there  in  heaven,  waiting 
for  you  and  looking  down  upon  you, 
and  God  will  be  taking  care  of  you  on 
earth." 

Meta  turned  her  eyes  to  the  uncur- 
tained window,  looking  up  to  the  win- 
ter evening  sky.  "  Has  heaven  got 
windows  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  think  it  has.  I  think  that  God 
lets  us  look  down  on  the  clear  ones  we 
have  left.  At  least, — at  least  it  is 
pleasant  to  think  so  when  we  are  about 
to  leave  them.  Meta,  darling,  it  can 
do  you  no  harm  to  think  so.  When 
mamma  shall  be  gone  to  that  better 
place,  and  you  are  left  alone  here,  you 
can  look  up  often  and  think  of  the 
time  that  you  will  be  going  there.  It 
will  soon  come." 

Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  they 
were  interrupted  :  these  moments  are 
too  painful  to  be  much  prolonged. 
Meta  was  sobbing  with  all  her  might, 
when  her  attention  was  diverted  by  a 
clash  and  dash  at  the  gate.  A  car- 
riage had  bowled  down  the  lane  and 
drawn  up  at  it,  almost  with  the  com- 
motion that  used  to  attend  the  dashing 
visits  to  the  bank  of  Mrs.  Charlotte 
Pain.  A  more  sober  equipage  this, 
however,  with  its  mourning  appoint- 
ments, although  it  bore  a  coronet  on 
its  panels.  The  footman  descended 
to  open  the  door,  and  one  lady  stepped 
out  of  it. 

"  It  is  Aunt  Cecil,"  called  out  Meta. 

She  rubbed  the  tears  from  her  pretty 


THE     SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT 


411 


cheeks,  her  grief  forgotten,  childlike, 
in  the  new  excitement,  and  flew  out 
to  meet  Lady  Averil.  Maria,  trying 
to  look  her  best,  rose  from  the  sofa 
and  tottered  forward  to  receive  her. 
Meta  was  pounced  upon  by  Margery 
and  carried  off  to  have  her  tumbled 
hair  smoothed  ;  and  Lady  Averil  came 
in  alone. 

She  threw  back  her  crape  vail  to 
kiss  Maria.  She  had  come  down  from 
Ashlydyat  on  purpose  to  tell  her  the 
news  of  the  bones  being  found  :  there 
could  be  little  doubt  that  they  were 
those  of  the  ill-fated  Richard  de  Com- 
mins,  which  had  been  so  fruitlessly 
searched  for  :  and  Lady  Averil  was 
full  of  the  excitement.  Perhaps  it 
was  natural  that  she  should  be,  being 
a  Godolphin. 

"  It  is  most  strange  that  they  should 
be  found  just  now,"  she  cried, — "  at 
the  very  time  that  the  Dark  Plain  is 
being  done  away  with.  You  know, 
Maria,  the  tradition  always  ran  that 
so  long  as  the  bones  remained  un- 
found,  the  Dark  Plain  would  retain 
the  appearance  of  a  graveyard.  Is  it 
not  a  singular  coincidence, — that  they 
should  be  discovered  at  the  moment 
that  the  plain  is  being  dug  up  ?  Were 
Janet  here,  she  would  say  how  start- 
lingly  all  the  old  superstition  is  being 
worked  out." 

"I  think  one  thing  especially  strange, 
— that  they  should  not  have  been  found 
before,"  observed  Maria.  "  Have  they 
not  been  searched  for  often  V 

"  I  believe  so,"  replied  Cecil.  "  But 
they  were  found  under  the  archway, 
immediately  under  it :  and  I  fancy 
they  had  always  been  searched  for  in 
the  Dark  Plain.  When  papa  had  the 
gorse-bushes  rooted  up  they  were 
looked  for  then  in  all  parts  of  the 
riain,  but  not  under  the  archway." 

"  How  came  Lord  Averil  to  think 
of  looking  under  the  archway  ?"  asked 
Maria. 

"  He  did  not  think  of  it.  They 
have  been  found  unexpectedly ;  they 
were  not  being  searched  for.  The 
archway  is  taken  down,  and  they  were 
digging  the  foundation  for  the  new 
summer-house,  when  they  came  upon 


them.  The  grounds  of  Ashlydyat 
have  been  like  a  fair  all  the  afternoon 
with  people  running  up  to  see  and 
hear,"  added  Cecil.  "  Lord  Averil  is 
going  to  consult  Mr.  Hastings  about 
giving  them  Christian  burial." 

"  It  does  seem  strange,"  murmured 
Maria.  "  Have  you  written  to  tell 
Janet?" 

"  No,  I  shall  write  to  her  to-mor- 
row. I  made  haste  down  to  you. 
Bessy  came  over  from  the  Folly,  but 
Lady  Godolphin  would  not  come : 
she  said  she  had  heard  enough  in  her 
life  of  the  superstition  of  Ashlydyat. 
She  never  liked  it,  you  know,  Maria, 
— never  believed  in  it." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Maria  answered. 
"  It  would  anger  her  when  it  was 
spoken  of, — as  it  angered  papa." 

"As  George  used  to  pretend  that 
it  angered  him.  I  think  it  was  pre 
tence,  though.  Poor  Thomas  never 
If  he  did  not  openly  accord  belief  to 
it,  he  never  ridiculed.  How  are  your 
preparations  getting  on,  Maria  ?" 

Maria  was  going  across  the  room 
with  feeble  steps  to  stir  the  fire  into 
a  blaze.  As  the  light  burst  forth, 
she  turned  her  face  to  Lady  Averil 
with  a  sort  of  apology. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  Margery  is 
about  that  she  does  not  bring  the 
lamp.  I  am  receiving  you  but  poorly, 
Cecil." 

Cecil  smiled.  "  I  think  our  topic, 
the  superstition  of  Ashlydyat,  is  best 
discussed  in  such  light  as  this,  than 
in  the  full  glare  of  lamplight. 

But  as  Lady  Averil  spoke  she  was 
looking  earnestly  on  Maria.  The  blaze 
had  lighted  up  her  wan  face,  and  Ce- 
cil was  struck  aghast  at  its  aspect. 
Was  it  real  ? — or  was  it  but  the  effect 
east  by  the  shade  of  the  firelight  ? 
Lady  Averil  had  not  heard  of  the 
ominous  fears  that  were  growing  ripe, 
and  hoped  it  was  the  latter. 

"  Maria,  are  you  looking  worse 
this  evening  ? — or  is  the  light  deceiv- 
ing me  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  I  am  looking  worse. 
I  am  worse.     I  am  very  ill,  Cecil." 

"  You  do  not  look  fit  to  embark  on 
I  this  voyage." 


412 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


Maria  simply  shook  her  head.  She 
was  sitting  now  in  an  old-fashioned 
elbow-chair,  one  white  hand  lying  on 
her  black  dress,  the  other  supporting 
her  chin,  while  the  firelight  played  on 
her  wasted  features. 

"Would  the  little  change  to  Ashly- 
dyat  benefit  you,  Maria  ?  If  so,  if  it 
would  help  to  give  you  strength  for 
your  voyage,  come  to  us  at  once. 
Now,  don't  refuse  !  It  will  give  us 
so  much  pleasure.  You  do  not  know 
how  Lord  Averil  loves  and  respects 
you.  I  think  there  is  no  one  he  so 
respects  as  he  respects  you.  Let  me 
take  you  home  with  me  now." 

Maria's  eyelashes  were  wet  as  she 
turned  them  on  her.  "  Thank  you, 
Cecil,  for  your  kindness :  and  Lord 
Averil — will  you  tell  him  so  for  me — 
I  am  always  thanking  in  my  heart. 
I  wish  I  could  go  home  with  you  ;  I 
wish  I  could  go  with  a  prospect  of  its 
doing  me  good  ;  but  that  is  over.  I 
shall  soon  be  in  a  narrower  home." 

Lady  Averil's  heart  stood  still,  and 
then  bounded  on  again.  "  No,  no  ! 
Surely  you  are  mistaken  1  It  cannot 
be." 

"  I  have  suspected  it  long,  Cecil ! 
but  since  the  last  day  or  two  it  has  be- 
come a  certainty,  and  even  Mr.  Snow 
acknowledges  it.  About  this  time 
yesterday,  at  the  dusk  hour,  he  was 
sitting  here,  and  I  bade  him  not  con- 
ceal the  truth  from  me.  I  told  him 
that  I  knew  it,  and  did  not  shrink 
from  it ;  and  \therefore  it  was  the 
height  of  folly  for  him  to  pretend  ig- 
norance to  me." 

"  Oh,  Maria  !  And  have  you  no 
regret  at  leaving  us  ?  I  should  think 
it  a  dreadful  thing  if  I  were  going  to 
die." 

"  I  have  been  battling  with  my 
regrets  a  long  while,"  said  Maria, 
bending  her  head,  and  speaking  in  a 
low,  subdued  tone.  "  The  leaving 
Meta  is  the  worst.  I  know  not  who 
will  take  her,  who  will  protect  her : 
she  cannot  go  with  George,  without — 
without  a  mother  !" 

"  Give  her  to  me,"  feverishly  broke 
from  the  lips  of  Lady  Averil.  "  You 
don't  know  how  dearly  I  have  ever 


loved  that  child.  Maria,  she  shall 
never  know  the  want  of  the  good 
mother  she  has  lost,  so  far  as  I  can 
supply  your  place,  if  you  will  let  her 
come  to  me.  It  is  well  that  the  only 
child  of  the  Godolphins, — and  she  is 
the  only  one, — should  be  reared  at 
Ashlydyat." 

Of  all  the  world,  Maria  could  best 
have  wished  Lady  Averil  to  have 
Meta :  and  perhaps  there  had  been 
moments  when  in  her  troubled  imag- 
ination she  had  hoped  it  would  be  so. 
But  she  could  not  shut  her  eyes  to  its 
improbabilities. 

"You  will  be  having  children  of 
your  own,  Cecil.  And  there's  Lord 
Averil !" 

"  Lord  Averil  is  over-indulgent  to 
me.  I  believe,  if  I  wished  to  adopt 
half  a  dozen  children,  he  would  only 
smile  and  tell  me  to  get  a  large  nur- 
sery for  them.  I  am  quite  sure  he 
would  like  to  have  Meta." 

"Then— if  he  will— oh,  Cecil,  I 
should  die  with  less  regret." 

"  Yes,  yes,  that  is  settled.  He  shall 
call  and  tell  you  so.  But — Maria — is 
your  own  state  so  certain  ?  Can  nothing 
be  done  for  you  ? — nothing  be  tried  ?" 

"  Nothing,  as  I  believe.  Mr.  Snow 
cannot  find  out  what  is  the  matter 
with  me.  The  trouble  has  been  break- 
ing my  heart,  Cecil, — I  know  of  noth- 
ing else.  And  since  I  grew  alarmed 
about  my  own  state,  there  has  been 
the  thought  of  Meta.  Many  a  time 
I  have  been  tempted  to  wish  that  I 
could  have  her  with  me  in  my  coffin." 

"  Aunt  Cecil .!  Aunt  Cecil !  How 
many  summer-houses  are  there  to  be, 
Aunt  Cecil  ?" 

You  need  not  inquire  whose  inter- 
rupting voice  it  was.  Lady  Averil 
lifted  the  child  on  her  knee,  and  asked 
whether  she  would  come  and  pay  her 
a  long,  long  visit  at  Ashlydyat.  Me- 
ta replied  by  inquiring  into  the  pros- 
pect of  swings  and  dolls'-houses,  and 
Cecil  plunged  into  promises  as  munif- 
icently as  George  could  have  done. 

"  Should  George  not  be  with  you  ?" 
she  whispered,  as  she  bent  over  Ma- 
ria previous  to  leaving. 

"  Yes,  I  am  beginning  to  think  he 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASnLYPYAT, 


413 


ought  to  be  now.  I  intend  to  write 
to  him  to-night :  but  I  did  not  like  to 
disturb  him  in  his  preparations.  It 
will  be  a  blow  to  him." 

"What !  does  he  not  know  of  it  ?" 

"  Not  yet.  He  thinks  I  am  getting 
ready  to  go  out  with  him.  I  wish  I 
could  have  done  it !" 

No,  not  until  the  unhappy  fact  was 
placed  beyond  all  doubt  would  Maria 
disturb  her  husband.  And  she  did  it 
gently  at  last.  "  I  have  been  unwill- 
ing to  alarm  you,  George,  and  I  would 
not  do  it  now,  but  that  I  believe  it  is 
all  too  certain.  Will  you  come  down 
and  see  what  you  think  of  me  ?  Even 
Mr.  Snow  fears  there  is  no  hope  for 
me  now.  Oh,  if  I  could  but  have 
gone  with  you, — have  gone  with  you 
to  be  your  ever-loving  wife  still,  in 
that  new  land  !" 

Lord  Averil  came  in  while  she  was 
addressing  the  letter.  Greatly  shocked, 
greatly  grieved  at  what  his  wife  told 
him,  he  got  up  from  his  dinner-table 
and  walked  down.  Her  husband  ex- 
cepted, there  was  no  one  whom  Maria 
would  have  been  so  pleased  to  see  as 
Lord  Averil.  He  had  not  come  so 
much  to  tell  her  that  he  heartily  con- 
curred in  his  wife's  offer  with  regard 
to  the  child, — though  he  did  say  it, 
say  that  she  should  be  done  by  en- 
tirely as  though  she  were  his  own, 
and  his  honest  honorable  nature  shone 
out  of  his  eyes  as  he  spoke  it, — as  to 
see  whether  nothing  could  be  done  for 
herself,  to  entreat  her  to  have  further 
advice  called  in. 

"  Dr.  Beale  has  been  here  twice,"  was 
her  answer.  "  He  says  there  is  no 
hope." 

Lord  Averil  held  her  hand  in  his, 
as  he  had  taken  it  in  greeting;  his 
grave  eyes  of  sympathy  were  bent 
with  deep  concern  on  her  face.  "  Ce- 
cil thinks  the  trouble  has  been  too 
much  for  you,"  he  whispered.  "  Is  it 
so?" 

A  streak  of  hectic  came  into  her 
cheek.  "  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  that. 
Turn  on  which  side  I  would,  there  was 
no  comfort,  no  hope.  Throughout  it 
all,  I  never  had  a  friend,  save  you, 
Lord  Averil ;  and  you  know,  and  God 


knows,  what  you  did  for  us.  I  have 
not  recompensed  you ;  I  do  not  see 
how  I  could  have  recompensed  you 
had  I  lived :  but  when  I  am  gone,  you 
will  be  happy  in  knowing  that  you 
took  the  greatest  weight  from  one 
who  was  stricken  by  the  world." 

"And  it  did  not  save  you !"  he 
wailed. 

"  No,  it  did  not  save  me.  It  saved 
me  from  trouble,  but  not,  you  see, 
from  death.  It  must  have  been  God's 
will  that  it  should  not." 

"You  have  been  writing  to  George  ?" 
he  observed,  seeing  the  letter  on  the 
table.  "  But  it  will  not  go  to-night : 
it  is  too  late." 

"  It  can  go  up  by  to-morrow's  day- 
mail,  and  he  will  get  it  in  the  even- 
ing. Perhaps  you  will  post  it  for  me 
as  you  walk  home  :  it  will  save  Mar- 
gery's going  out." 

Lord  Averil  put  the  letter  in  his 
pocket.  He  stood  looking  at  her  as 
she  lay  a  little  back  in  her  easy-chair, 
his  arm  resting  on  the  mantelpiece, 
and  curious  thoughts  passing  through 
his  mind.  Could  he  do  nothing  for 
her, — to  avert  the  fate  that  was 
threatening  her  ?  He,  a  nobleman, 
rich  in  wealth,  happy  now  in  the 
world's  favor;  she,  going  to  the  grave 
in  sorrow,  it  might  be  in  privation — 
what  could  he  do  to  help  her? 

There  are  moments  when  we  speak 
out  of  our  true  heart,  when  the  con- 
ventionalism that  surrounds  the  best 
of  us  is  thrown  aside,  all  deceit,  all 
form  forgotten.  Lord  Averil  was  a 
good  and  true  man,  but  never  better, 
never  truer  than  now,  when  he  took  a 
step  forward  and  bent  to  Maria. 

"  Let  me  have  the  satisfaction  of 
doing  something  for  you  !  let  me  try 
and  save  you  !"  he  implored  in  low, 
earnest  tones.  "  If  that  may  not  be, 
let  me  help  to  lighten  your  remaining 
hours.     How  can  I  best  do  it  ?" 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  ;  she 
looked  up  to  him,  the  gratitude  she 
could  not  speak  shining  from  her  sweet 
eyes.  "  Indeed  there  is  nothing  now, 
Lord  Averil.  I  wish  I  could  thank 
you  as  you  deserve  for  the  past." 

He  held  her  hand  for  some  time, 


414 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT. 


hut  she  seemed  weak,  exhausted,  and 
he  said  good-night  Margery  attend- 
ed him  to  the  outer  gate,  in  spite  of 
his  desire  that  she  should  not  in  the 
cold  air,  which  seemed  to  threaten 
snow. 

"Your  mistress  is  very  ill,  Mar- 
gery," he  gravely  said.  "  She  seems 
to  he  in  danger." 

"  I'm  afeard  she  is,  my  lord.  Up 
to  the  last  day  or  two  I  thought  she 
might  take  a  turn  and  get  over  it ;  but 
since  then  she  has  got  worse  with 
every  hour.  There's  some  folks  as 
can  battle  out  things,  and  some  folks 
as  can't :  she's  one  of  the  last  sort, 
and  she  has  been  tried  in  all  ways." 

Lord  Averil  dropped  the  letter  into 
the  post-office,  looking  mechanically  at 
its  superscription,  George  Godolphin, 
Esquire.  But  that  he  was  preoccu- 
pied with  his  own  thoughts,  he  might 
have  seen  by  the  very  writing  how7 
weak  she  was,  for  it  was  scarcely 
recognizable  as  hers.  Yery,  very  ill 
she  looked  ;  as  if  the  end  were  grow- 
ing ominously  near  ;  and  Lord  Averil 
did  not  altogether  like  the  tardy  sum- 
mons which  the  letter  would  convey. 
A  night  and  day  yet  before  he  could 
receive  it.  A  moment's  commune 
with  himself,  and  then  he  took  the 
path  to  the  railway-station  to  the  tel- 
egraph office,  and  sent  off  a  message  : 

"  Yiscount  Averil  to  George  Godol- 
phin, Esquire.  Your  wrife  is  very  ill. 
Come  down  by  first  train." 


CHAPTER  LXIX. 

NEWS   FOR  ALL   SOULS'   RECTORY. 

The  snow  came  early.  It  was 
nothing  like  Christmas  yet,  and  here 
was  the  ground  covered.  The  black 
skies  had  seemed  to  threaten  it  the 
previous  night,  but  people  were  not 
prepared  to  find  every  thing  wearing 
a  white  aspect  when  they  rose  in  the 
morning. 

Have  you  forgotten  that  long  room 
iu  All  Souls'  rectory,  its  three  win- 


dows looking  on  the  garden  ;  at  one 
of  which  windows  Mrs.  Hastings  once 
stood,  complaining  to  the  rector  that 
David  Jekyl  did  not  sweep  the  dead 
leaves  from  the  garden  paths  ?  You 
may  look  at  almost  the  same  scene 
now,  save  that  the  signs  of  winter  in- 
stead of  autumn  are  on  the  ground. 
Mrs.  Hastings  is  not  there,  but  the 
rector  and  David  Jekyl  are.  The  rec- 
tor is  shivering  over  a  handful  of  fire 
iu  the  room,  and  David  outside  is 
sweeping  the  snow  from  the  paths. 

When  poverty  comes  in  at  the  door, 
sickness  very  frequently  creeps  in  after 
it.  Whether  it  was  that  (though  per- 
haps the  word  poverty  is  not  precisely 
the  correct  one  to  apply  to  All  Souls' 
rectory),  or  whether  it  was  the  grief 
which  the  summer  and  George  Godol- 
phin had  brought  them,  certain  it  was, 
that  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hastings  had 
been  for  some  time  ailing.  Mrs. 
Hastings  had  been  urged  by  somo 
friends,  i*esiding  about  forty  miles  off, 
to  visit  them  for  a  little  change  ;  it 
wrould  set  her  up  for  the  winter,  they 
urged  ;  and  she  had  at  length  yielded, 
and  went  to  them  about  three  days 
ago.  She  should  remain  but  a  few 
days,  she  said  ;  for  she  could  not  af- 
ford to  be  away  from  Maria  in  the 
last  week  or  two  of  the  latter's  stay 
at  Prior's  Ash.  IsTo  sooner  had  Mrs. 
Hastings  left,  than  it  appeared  to  be 
the  rector's  turn  to  get  ill ;  an  influ- 
enza cold,  which  had  been  hovering 
over  him,  grew  worse.  His  own  pri- 
vate opinion  was,  that  he  had  laid  its 
foundation  at  Thomas  Godolphin's 
funeral,  when  he  had  stood  bareheaded 
in  the  drizzling  rain,  and  that  it  had 
since  been  smouldering  within  him. 

He  sat  over  the  fire,  shivering  and 
shaking.  It  was  not  the  substantial 
fire  that  you  see  in  a  grate  where  cir- 
cumstances are  easy  and  coals  plenti- 
ful;  but  a  very  sparing  fire  indeed; 
and  the  rector  now  extended  his  hands 
to  the  blaze,  and  now  turned  his  gray 
face  to  glance  at  David  Jekyl.  He 
had  persisted  in  doctoring  his  cold 
himself,  but  it  seemed  to  get  no  bet- 
ter, and  Rose  had  at  length  prevailed 
on  him  to  send  for  Mr.  Snow. 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT. 


415 


Rose  was  an  efficient  mistress  of 
the  house  in  the  absence  of  her 
mother.  Capability  nearly  always 
comes  with  the  necessity  for  it :  and 
it  was  proving  so  m  the  case  of  Rose 
Hastings.  They  kept  but  one  ser- 
vant now,  and  many  household  duties 
fell  to  Rose's  share ;  she  taught  the 
little  Chisholm  girls,  and  kept  them 
as  quiet  as  she  could.  It  ivas  hard 
that  these  troubles  should  have  fallen 
on  the  rector  in  his  old  age  :  his  home 
made  into  a  school,  his  household  de- 
prived of  most  of  its  comforts,  his 
sons  and  daughters'  prospects  destroy- 
ed. Isaac  was  toiling  at  his  clerkship 
in  London,  Reginald  in  his  hard  life 
at  sea,  Harry  as  an  usher  in  a  school. 
Perhaps  the  only  one  to  whom  it  had 
made  no  daily  home  difference  was 
Grace.  You  may  have  thought  him' 
an  unchristian  minister,  in  saying  he 
could  not  bring  his  mind  to  forgive 
George  Godolphin,  but  I  think  a  great 
many  more  of  us, '  ministers  or  not 
ministers,  would  have  said  the  same, 
not  being  hypocrites. 

Mr.  Hastings  sat  over  the  fire 
dreamily  watching  David  Jekyl,  await- 
ing the  visit  of  Mr.  Snow,  and  think- 
ing his  own  thoughts.  David  had 
got  a  bit  of  crape  on  his  old  felt  hat 
for  his  recently  interred  father :  per- 
haps the  officiating  at  the  old  man's 
burial,  and  standing  in  the  bleak 
churchyard, — though  it  did  not  either 
rain  or  snow, — had  not  mended  the 
rector's  cold.  He  might  have  pro- 
cured a  friend  to  take  the  service  for 
him,  but  Mr.  Hastings  was  one  who 
would  never  shrink  from  his  duty  so 
long  as  there  was  a  possibility  of  his 
performing  it.  The  crape  on  David's 
hat  led  the  rector's  thoughts  to  the 
old  man,  and  thence  to  the  depriva- 
tion brought  to  the  old  man's  years, 
the  loss  to  the  sons,  through  George 
Godolphin.  How  many  more,  besides 
poor  old  Jekyl,  had  George  Godol- 
phin ruined  ! — himself,  that  reverend 
clergyman,  amongst  the  rest ! 

"  A  good  thing  when  the  country 
shall  be  rid  of  him  !"  spoke  the  rector, 
in  his  bitterness.  "I  would  give  all 
the  comfort  left  in  my  life  that  Maria, 


for  her  own  sake,  had  not  linked  her 
fate  with  his  1  But  that  can't  be 
remedied  now.  I  hope  he  will  make 
her  happier  there,  in  her  new  home, 
than  he  has  made  her  here  !" 

By  which  words  you  will  gather 
that  Mr.  Hastings  had  no  suspicion 
of  the  change  in  his  daughter's  state. 
It  "was  so.  Lord  and  Lady  Averil 
were  not  alone  in  leai'ning  the  tidings 
suddenly, — at,  as  may  be  said,  the 
eleventh  hour.  Maria  had  not  sent 
word  to  the  rectory  that  she  was 
worse.  She  knew  that  her  mother 
was  absent,  that  her  father  was  ill, 
that  Rose  was  occupied ;  and  the 
change  from  bad  to  worse  had  come 
upon  herself  so  imperceptibly,  that 
she  saw  not  its  real  danger, — as  was 
proved  by  her  not  writing  for  her  hus- 
band. The  rector,  as  he  sits  there, 
has  his  mind  full  of  Maria's  voyage 
and  its  discomforts  ;  of  her  changed 
life  in  hot  India  :  and  he  is  saying  to 
himself  that  he  shall  get  out  in  the 
afternoon  and  call  to  see  her. 

The  room  faced  the  side  of  the 
house,  but  as  Mr.  Hastings  sat,  he 
could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  garden- 
gate,  and  presently  he  saw  the  well- 
known  gig  stop  at  it,  and  the  surgeon 
descend. 

"  Well,  and  who's  ill  now  ?"  cried 
Mr.  Snow,  as  he  let  himself  in  at  the 
hall-door,' and  Rose  advanced  to  meet 
him.  "Mrs.  Hastings  is  not  back,  is 
she,  Miss  Rose  ?" 

"  It  is  papa  who  is  not  well,  Mr. 
Snow.  He  is  very  poorly.  I  wished 
him  to  send  for  you  yesterday,  but 
he  would  not." 

Mr.  Snow  went  into  the  room  and 
took  a  seat  in  front  of  the  rector,  ex- 
amined into  his  ailments,  and  gossiped 
at  the  same  time,  as  was  his  wont, 
— gossiped  and  grumbled. 

"Ah,  yes;  just  so  :  feel  worse  than 
you  have  felt  for  twenty  years.  Well, 
Mr.  Hastings,  you  have  only  yourself 
to  thank.  If  you  won't  keep  your- 
self in  health,  you  can't  expect  health 
to  keep  with  you  of  its  own  accord." 

"How  am  I  to  keep  myself  in 
health  more  than  I  do  ?" 

"  How  !    Why,  by  taking  care  of 


416 


a1  HE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYltf  AT. 


yourself;  by  living  a  little  bit  up  to 
the  mark.  Here  have  you  been  put- 
ting yourself  upon  half-diet :  what  can 
you  expect  but  that  any  little  ailments 
will  find  you  out,  when  }rou  have  not 
strength  to  throw  them  off?" 

"  I  have  not  put  myself  upon  half- 
diet,"  said  Mr.  Hastings. 

"  Tooh  !  As  if  I  didn't  know  !  You 
take  as  much  as  you  wantto  eat  perhaps 
in  quantity,  but  in  quality — what  d'you 
say  to  that  ?  You  used  to  drink  a 
glass  of  good  ale  with  your  dinner 
and  a  glass  of  good  wine  after  it,  and 
your  table  was  in  accordance  with 
such  moderate  luxury :  now  it's  cold 
mutton  and  small-beer.  What  do  you 
expect  can  come  of  it,  I  say  ?  A  man 
may  go  through  life  without  these 
things  and  be  in  perfect  health  ;  but  a 
man  who  has  been  accustomed  to  take 
them  cannot  leave  them  off  with  im- 
punity when  he  gets  to  your  years." 

"  Suppose  he  is  forced  ? — as  I  am. 
You  know  what  I  have  to  do  now  with 
my  income,  Snow,  just  as  well  as  I 
know  it.  Necessaries  we  must  have  ; 
luxuries  for  us  are  over.  It  is  of  no  use 
talking  nonsense  or  reverting  to  old 
times  :  I  can  hardly  make  both  ends 
meet.  The  breaking  of  that  bank  was 
a  comprehensive  calamity,  and  I  only 
suffer  with  the  stream.  Some  are 
worse  off  than  I." 

"  You  had  better  go  to  bed  and  stop 
there  till  you  are  better,  and  live  up- 
on water-gruel  the  while,"  retorted 
Mr.  Snow.  "  Where's  the  use  of  send- 
ing for  me  if  you  won't  do  what  I  tell 
you  ?" 

"  I'll  take  some  wine  if  it  is  neces- 
sary now,  if  you  mean  that :  but  as 
to  taking  it  as  a  regular  beverage  two 
or  three  glasses  a  day,  it's  out  of  the 
question.  I  happened  to  be  just  out 
of  wine  when  that  shock  came,  and  to 
purchase  a  fresh  stock  is  beyond  me. 
Good  wine  demands  its  own  price, 
and  the  bad  is  good  for  nobody,  sick 
or  well.  Many  a  time  have  I  given  a 
bottle  from  my  cellar  to  a  poor  sick 
man,  that  be  might  not  poison  himself 
with  the  cheap  rubbish  sold  out  in 
pints  to  the  poor." 

Nobody  knew  that  better  than  the 


surgeon.  He  had  given  his  advice 
and  medicine;  the  rector  his  wine  and 
his  counsel.  Neither  of  them  could 
look  back  on  his  life,  and  reproach 
himself  with  not  having  done  his  duty. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  not  serious  in 
your  advice  about  my  going  to  bed," 
resumed  the  rector.  "  Because  I  shall 
not  take  it.  I  am  not  so  ill  as  all  that 
comes  to  ;  and  J  shall  want  to  go  out 
this  afternoon." 

"  In  this  snow  !" 

"  It  does  not  snow  now.  I  don't 
think  it  will  snow  again  to-day.  And 
weather  does  not  hurt  me  ;  I  am  ac- 
customed to  be  out  in  it." 

"  Why,  you  have  just  told  me  that 
you  think  you  caught  this  cold  over 
Mr.  Godolphin's  grave  !" 

"  I  think  I  did.  I  felt  it  coming  on 
in  my  head  the  next  day.  I  could  not 
read  the  service  in  my  hat,  Snow, 
over  him,  and  you  know  the  rain  was 
falling.  Ah  !  there  was  another  suf- 
ferer !  But  for  the  calamity  that  fell 
upon  him,  he  might  not  have  gone  to 
the  grave  quite  so  soon." 

"  He  felt  it  too  keenly,'''  remarked 
Mr.  Snow.  "And  }_our  daughter — 
there's  another  sad  victim.  Ah  me  ! 
sometimes  I  wish  I  had  never  been  a 
doctor,  when  I  find  all  I  can  do  in  the 
way  of  treatment  comes  to  naught." 

"  If  she  can  only  get  well  through 
the  fatigues  of  the  voyage,  she  may  be 
better  in  India.  Don't  you  think  so  ? 
The  very  change  from  this  place  will 
put  new  life  in  her." 

Mr.  Snow  paused.  "  Of  whom  are 
you  speaking,  Mr.  Hastings  ?" 

"  Of  my  daughter,"  was  the  an- 
swer, slight  surprise  in  the  tone. 
"  George  Godolphin's  wife." 

The  truth  flashed  on  the  mind  of 
the  surgeon, — that  Mr.  Hastings  was 
as  yet  in  ignorance  of  Maria's  state  of 
danger ;  and  flashed  with  pain.  Of 
course  it  was  his  duty  to  enlighten 
him,  and  he  would  rather  have  been 
spared  the  task.  "  When  did  you  see 
her  last  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  The  day  Mrs.  Hastings  left,  I 
have  not  been  well  enough  to  go  out 
much  since.  And  1  dare  say  Maria 
has  been  busv." 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


411 


"  I  am  sorry  then  to  have  to  tell  you 
that  she  has  not  been  busy ;  that  she  has 
not  been  well  enough  to  be  busy.  She 
is  much  worse." 

There  was  a  significance  in  the  tone 
that  spoke  to  the  father  more  effectu- 
ally than  any  words  could  have  done. 
He  was  silent  for  a  full  minute,  and 
then  he  rose  from  his  chair  and  walked 
once  up  and  down  the  room  before  he 
turned  to  Mr.  Snow. 

"The  full  truth,  Snow.  Tell  it 
me." 

"  Well — the  truth  is,  that  hope  is 
over.  That  she  will  not  very  long  be 
here.  I  had  no  suspicion  but  that 
you  knew  it." 

"  I  knew  nothing  of  it ;  none  of  us 
knew  of  it.  When  I  and  her  mother 
were  with  her  last ;  it  was,  I  tell  you, 
the  day  Mrs.  Hastings  left ;  Maria. 
was  talking  of  going  back  to  London 
with  her  husband  the  next  time  he 
came  down  to  Prior's  Ash.  I  thought 
her  looking  better  that  morning  ;  she 
had  quite  a  color ;  she  was  in  good 
spirits.     When  did  you  see  her  ?" 

"Now.  I  went  up  there  before  I 
came  down  to  you.  She  gets  worse 
and  worse  with  every  hour.  Lord 
Averil  telegraphed  for  George  Godol- 
phin  last  night :  I  met  him  coming  to 
inquire  after  her,  and  he  told  me  so." 

"  And  I  have  not  been  informed  of 
this!"  burst  forth  the  rector.  "My 
daughter  dying — for  I  infer  no  less — 
and  I  to  be  left  in  ignorance  !" 

"Nay,"  said  Mr.  Snow,  "  I  tell  you 
I  did  not  suppose  but  you  were  aware 
of  it.  I  know  you,  or  some  of  you, 
are  often  there." 

"But  it  happens — it  just  happens 
that  none  of  us  have  been  there  since 
my  wife's  departure,"  returned  Mr. 
Hastings,  his  tone  changing  to  a  wail. 
"  Rose  could  not  well  get  out,  and  I 
have  been  ill.  I  never  cast  a  thought 
to  her  being  worse.  Why  did  she  not 
send  us  word  ?  What  can  Margery 
be  about  ?" 

"  Understand  one  thing,  Mr.  Hast- 
ings,— that  until  this  morning,  we  saw 
no  fear  of  immediate  danger.  Lord 
Averil  says  he  suspected  it  last  night. 
I  did  not  see  her  yesterday  in  the  after- 
26 


part  of  the  day.  I  have  known  some  few 
cases  precisely  similar  to  Mrs.  George 
Godolphin's,  where  danger  and  death 
seem  to  have  come  suddenly  on  to- 
gether. " 

"  And  what  is  her  disease  ?" 

The  surgeon  threw  up  his  arms. 
"  I  don't  know, — unless  the  trouble 
has  fretted  her  into  her  grave.  Were 
I  not  a  doctor,  I  might  say  she  had 
died  of  a  broken  heart,  but  the  faculty 
don't  recognize  such  a  thing." 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Hastings  was  hanging  over  his 
daughter's  dying-bed.  A  dying-bed 
it  too  surely  looked ;  and  if  Mr.  Hast- 
ings had  indulged  a  gleam  of  hope, 
the  first  glance  at  Maria's  countenance 
dispelled  it.  She  lay  wrapped  in  a 
shawl,  the  laee  border  of  her  night- 
cap shading  her  delicate  face  and  its 
smooth  brown  hair,  her  eyes  larger 
and  softer  and  sweeter  than  of  yore. 

They  were  alone  together.  He  held 
her  hand  in  his  ;  he  gently  laid  his 
other  hand  on  her  white  and  wasted 
brow.  "  Child  !  child  !  why  did  you 
not  send  to  me  ?" 

"  I  did  not  know  I  was  so  ill, 
papa,"  she  panted.  "  I  seem  to  have 
got  so  much  worse  this  last  night. 
But  I  am  better  than  I  was  an  hour 
ago." 

"  Maria,"  he  gravely  said,  "  ar^ 
you  aware  that, — that  you  are  in  a 
state  of  danger? — that  death  may  su- 
pervene ?" 

"  Yes,  papa,  I  know  it.  I  have 
seen  it  coming  a  long  while, — only  I 
was  not  quite  sure." 

"  And,  my  dear  child,  are  you " 

Mr.  Hastings  paused.  He  paused  and 
bit  his  lips,  gathering  firmness  to  sup- 
press the  emotion  that  was  rising. 
His  calling  made  him  familiar  with 
death-bed  scenes  ;  but  Maria  was  his 
own  child,  and  nature  will  assert  her 
supremacy.  A  minute  or  two  and  he 
was  himself  again  :  not  a  man  living 
was  more  given  to  reticence  in  the 
matter  of  his  own  feelings  than  the 
rector  of  All  Souls' :  he  could  not 
bear  to  betray  emotion  in  the  sight 
of  his  fellow-men. 

"Are  you  prepared  for  death,  Ma- 


418 


THE       SHADOW       OF       ASHLYDYAT. 


ria  ?     Can  you  look  upon  it  without 
terror?" 

"  I  think  I  am,"  she  murmured. 
"  I  feel  that  I  am  going  to  God.  Oh, 
papa,  forgive,  forgive  me  !"  she  ex- 
claimed, bursting  into  tears  of  emo- 
tion as  she  raised  her  arms  to  him  in 
the  moment's  excitement.  "  The  trou- 
ble has  been  too  much  for  me ;  1  could 
not  shake  it  off.  All  the  sorrow  that 
has  been  brought  upon  you  through 
us,  I  think  of  it  always  :  my  heart 
aches  with  thinking  of  it.  Oh,  papa, 
forgive  me  before  I  die  !  It  was  not 
my  fault ;  indeed  I  did  not  know  of  it. 
Papa," — and  the  sobs  became  pain- 
fully hysterical,  and  Mr.  Hastings 
strove  in  vain  to  check  them, — "  I 
would  have  sacrificed  my  life  to  bring 
good  to  you  and  my  dear  mamma ; 
I  would  have  sold  myself  to  keep  this 
ill  from  you  I" 

"  Child,  hush  !  There  has  been 
nothing  to  forgive  to  yon.  In  the 
first  moment  of  the  smart,  if  I  cast  an 
unkind  thought  to  you,  it  did  not  last: 
it  was  gone  almost  as  soon  as  it  came. 
My  dear  child,  you  have  ever  been 
my  loving  and  dutiful  daughter.  Ma- 
ria, shall  I  tell  it  you  ? — I  know  not 
why,  but  I  have  loved  you  better  than 
any  of  my  other  children." 

She  had  raised  herself  from  the  pil- 
low and  was  clasping  his  hand  to  her 
bosom,  sobbing  over  it.  Few  daugh- 
ters have  loved  a  father  as  Maria  had 
loved  and  venerated  hers.  The  rec- 
tor's face  was  preternaturally  pale 
and  calm,  the  effect  of  his  powerfully- 
suppressed  emotion. 

"  It  has  been  too  much  for  me, 
papa.  I  have  thought  of  your  trouble, 
of  the  discomforts  of  your  home,  of 
the  blighted  prospects  of  my  brothers, 
feeling  that  it  was  our  work.  I  thought 
of  it  always,  more  perhaps  than  of 
other  things ;  and  I  could  not  battle 
with  the  pain  it  brought,  and  it  has 
killed  me.  Hut,  papa,  I  am  resigned 
to  go  :  I  know  that  I  shall  be  better 
off.  Before  these  troubles  came,  I 
had  not  learned  to  think  of  God ;  and 
I  should  have  been  afraid  to  die." 
"  It  is  through  tribulation  that  we 


must  enter  the  kingdom,"  interposed 
the  calm,  earnest  voice  of  the  clergy- 
man. "  It  must  come  to  us  here  in 
some  shape  or  other,  my  child  ;  and 
1  do  not  see  that  it  signifies  how,  or 
when,  or  through  whom  it  does  come, 
if  it  takes  us  to  a  better  world.  You 
have  had  your  share  of  it :  but  God 
is  a  just  and  merciful  judge,  and  if  he 
has  given  you  a  full  share  of  sorrow, 
he  will  deal  out  to  you  his  full  recom- 
pense." 

"  Yes,"  she  gently  said,  "  I  am 
going  to  God.  Will  you  pray  for  me,  * 
papa  ? — that  he  will  pardon  me  and 
take  me  for  Christ's  sake.  Oh,  papa ! 
it  seems, — it  seems  when  we  get  near 
death  as  if  the  other  world  were  so 
very  near  to  this !  It  seems  but  such 
a  little  span  of  time  that  I  shall  have 
to  wait  for  you  all  before  you  come  to 
me.  Will  you  give  my  dear  love  to 
mamma  if  1  should  not  live  to  see  her, 
and  say  how  I  have  loved  her, — say 
that  I  have  but  gone  on  first, — that  I 
shall  be  there  ready  for  her.  Papa, 
I  dare  say  God  will  let  me  be  ever 
waiting  and  looking  for  you  all." 

Mr.  Hastings  turned  to  search  for 
a  Book  of  Common  Prayer.  He  saw 
Maria's  on  her  dressing-table, — one 
which  he  had  given  her  on  her  mar- 
riage, and  written  her  name  in, — and 
he  opened  it  at  the  "  Yisitation  of  the 
Sick."  He  looked  searchingly  at  her 
face  as  he  returned  :  surely  the  signs 
of  death  were  already  gathering  there  ! 

"  The  last  Sacrament,  Maria  ?"  he 
whispered.     "  When  shall  I  come  ?" 

"  This  evening,"  she  answered. 
"  George  will  be  here  then." 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Hastings  bent 
his  eyebrows  with  a  frown,  as  if  he 

thought But  no  matter.    "  At  eight 

o'clock,  then,"  he  said  to  Maria,  as  he 
laid  the  book  upon  the  bed  and  knelt 
down  before  it.  Maria  lay  back  on 
her  pillow,  and  clasping  her  hands 
upon  the  shawl  which  covered  her 
bosom,  closed  her  eyes  to  listen. 

It  was  strange  that  even  then,  as 
he  was  in  the  very  act  of  kneeling, 
certain  words  which  he  had  spoken  to 
Maria  years  ago,  should  flash  vividly 


THE     SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


419 


into  the  vector's  mind, — words  which 
had  referred  to  the  death  of  Ethel 
Grame  : 

"  The  time  may  come,  Maria — we 
none  of  us  know  what  is  before  us — 
when  some  of  you  young  ones  who 
are  left,  may  wish  you  had  died  as 
she  has.  Many  a  one,  battling  for 
veiy  existence  with  the  world's  cark- 
ing  cares,  wails  out  a  vain  wish  that 
he  had  been  taken  from  the  evil  to 
come." 

Had  the  gift  of  prevision  been  on 
the  rector  of  All  Souls'  when  he  spoke 
those  words  to  Maria  Hastings  ?  Poor 
child  !  lying  there  now  on  her  early 
death-bed, — with  her  broken  heart ! 
The  world's  carking  cares  had  surely 
done  their  work  on  Maria  Godolphin ! 


CHAPTER  LXX. 

A   CROWD    OF    MEMORIES. 

But  for  mismanagement  how 
smoothly  things  might  go  on  !  That 
a  great  deal  of  mismanagement  does 
exist  in  the  world  is  certain  ;  and  it  is 
equally  certain  that  much  of  it  might 
be  avoided  with  a  little  care.  That 
telegraphic  dispatch  which  Lord  Av- 
eril  had  deemed  well  to  send,  and 
which  had  not  been  sent  any  too  soon, 
did  not  reach  George  Godolphin  for 
hours  and  hours. 

It  was  taken  to  his  lodgings  be- 
tween nine  and  ten  at  night,  some  two 
hours  after  the  dispatching  of  it  by 
Lord  Averil.  A  delay  there,  you  will 
say,  but  that,  as  it  proved,  was  of  no 
consequence  :  had  it  flown  up  on  the 
wings  of  the  wind,  been  delivered  at 
the  same  moment  that  it  left  Prior's 
Ash,  George  would  not  have  had  it. 

George  that  day  had  gone  out  to 
dinner.  He  had  made  acquaintance 
with  the  agents  of  the  Calcutta  house, 
and  had  accepted  a  dinner  engagement 
with  one  of  them  at  his  country  resi- 
dence, a  few  miles  from  town.  Con- 
sequently when  the  dispatch  arrived 
there  was  nobody  to  receive  it  but 


George's  landlady,  a  worthy  old  per- 
son who,  as  the  saying  runs,  had  seen 
better  days,  and  never  thought  she 
should  have  to  let  rooms  for  a  living. 

Now  Mrs.  Clark,  for  that  was  her 
name,  had  an  invincible  horror  of  tele- 
graphic dispatches.  She  had  never 
received  but  two  in  her  life  :  the  one 
had  told  her  of  the  drowning  by  acci- 
dent of  her  only  son  ;  the  other  of  the 
sudden  death  of"  her  husband.  Rather 
confused  in  her  association  of  cause  and 
effect,  it  was  perhaps  natural  that  she 
should  henceforth  connect  these  dis- 
patches with  every  kind  of  imagina- 
tive ill,  and  loudly  express  her  convic- 
tion that  the  greatest  bane  ever  in- 
vented for  society  was  the  electric 
telegraph. 

The  man  arrived  at  her  door  with 
the  dispatch,  and  the  servant  went  to 
her  mistress.  "  A  telegrum  come  for 
Mr.  George  Godolphin,  mum ;  six- 
pence to  pay,  and  a  book  to  sign." 

Mrs.  Clark  was  struck  nearly  dumb 
with  terror.  For  some  minutes  she 
flatly  refused  to  touch  it  or  to  sign  the 
book ;  and  she  and  the  man,  who  was 
called  in,  had  a  wordy  argument.  At 
length  the  man  managed  to  get  the  sig- 
nature and  the  sixpence,  and  he  went 
out,  leaving  the  dispatch  on  the  table. 

"  There's  a  death  in  it,  Betsey,  as 
sure  as  that  we  are  here  !"  observed 
Mrs.  Clark,  gazing  at  it  as  it  lay,  but 
not  taking  it  in  her  hands. 

Betsey  was  dubious.  "  In  my  last 
place,  mum,  a  gentleman  used  to  have 
them  telegrams  continual,  and  they 
could  have  had  nothing  but  fun  in  'em, 
by  the  way  he'd  laugh  over  'em." 

"  Take  it  up-stairs,  Betsey,  and  put 
it  on  Mr.  Godolphin's  dressing-table," 
was  her  mistress's  order.  "  Don't  put 
it  in  too  conspicuous  a  place,  for  his 
eyes  to  light  on  it  all  at  once  ;  hide  it 
partially,  and  we'll  prepare  him  a  little, 
poor  gentleman,  before  he  goes  up." 

Betsey  obeyed  orders  to  the  letter. 
Naturally  an  obedient  servant,  as 
servants  run,  she  was  also  willing  to 
spare  pain — if  there  was  pain  to  be 
spared  —  to  Mr.  George  Godolphin. 
George  had  a  pleasant  manner  to  those 
who  waited  on  him.     Poor  though  he 


420 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


now  was,  he  had  also  a  generous 
hand ;  and  Betsey  believed  there  could 
not  be  such  a  gentleman  as  he  in  all 
the  world.  She  stood  before  the  dress- 
ing-table, and  looked  about  for  a  place 
"  not  too  conspicuous,"  trying  various 
situations  to  leave  it  in.  Finally  slie 
put  it  flat  on  the  white  toilette-cover, 
and  placed  his  glass  shaving-pot  upon 
it,  so  that  only  the  sides  of  the  dis- 
patch could  be  seen  beyond. 

And  Mrs.  Clark  herself  sat  up  to 
warn  him.  She  believed,  considerate 
old  lady,  that  nobody  could  accomplish 
that  delicate  mission  with  the  skill 
that  she  could, — warn  him  sufficiently 
and  yet  not  frighten  him, — and  she 
sat  up  in  her  good  .nature  to  do  it. 

It  was  past  eleven  when  George 
came  in.  She  hastened  out  of  the 
parlor  and  caught  him  as  he  was  light- 
ing his  candle,  which  was  placed  ready 
on  the  mahogany  slab. 

"  There's  something  come  for  you 
to-night,  sir ;  I  paid  sixpence.  Not 
a  letter,  something  else.  You'll  see  it 
on  your  dressing-table,  sir.  I  have 
had  it  placed  there,  and  I  thought  I'd 
sit  up  to  tell  you  of  it  before  you  went 
up  yourself." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied 
George. 

He  bounded  up  the  stairs  and  en- 
tered his  sitting-room,  giving  not  a 
second  thought  to  the  communication 
of  Mrs.  Clark.  That  it  could  be  a 
telegraphic  dispatch  from  home  never 
so  much  as  crossed  his  imagination. 
The  poor  old  lady's  considerate  cau- 
tion had  defeated  its  own  ends.  If 
she  had  but  spoken  out !  George  was 
in  the  height  of  his  preparations  for 
departure,  and  parcels  and  letters  were 
arriving  for  him  continually.  Two 
letters  which  had  come  by  the  evening 
post  were  on  the  mantelpiece.  He 
stayed  to  read  them  and  then  went 
into  his  bedroom. 

Now,  it  happened  that  a  small  par- 
cel had  also  come  for  George  that 
evening,  and  had  been  placed  by  Bet- 
sey on  his  dressing-table.  The  fact 
was  not  known  to  Mrs.  Clark,  and  had 
probably  been  forgotten  by  the  girl 
herself.     But  as  George  laid  down  his 


candle  his  eyes  fell  on  this  small  par- 
cel :  and  what  more  natural  than  that 
he  should  suppose  it  was  the  "  some- 
thing "  alluded  to  by  Mrs.  Clark  ?  He 
did  suppose  it,  and  he  wondered  at 
the  old  lady's  intimation  of  having 
"  sat  up  to  tell  him  of  it,"  but  he  let 
it  slip  from  his  mind. 

George  tore  the  paper  that  inclosed 
the  parcel,  and  found  it  to  contain  a 
specimen  necktie  which  he  had  or- 
dered to  be  sent.  After  that  he  went 
to  bed,  never  having  seen  the  dispatch 
so  quietly  lying  there. 

Winter  mornings  are  dark,  very  dark 
in  London ;  and  nine  o'clock  had  struck 
before  George  had  rung  for  his  shav- 
ing water.  It  was  brought,  and  in 
taking  up  the  glass  pot  George  for 
the  first  time  saw  what  was  under  it. 
"  Halloa  !"  he  cried. 

He  tore  it  open ;  he  read  the  omin- 
ous words  from  Viscount  Averil.  In 
another  moment  he  was  shouting 
down  the  stairs,  astonishing  Betsey, 
alarming  Mrs.  Clark,  who  came  out 
of  an  upper  room  in  a  night-cap. 

"  When  did  this  dispatch  come  ? 
Why  was  I  not  told  of  it  V 

Alas  !  of  what  use  was  the  expla- 
nation now  ? — that  he  had  been  told 
of  it,  if  he  could  but  have  understood. 
Of  what  use  to  reproach  Mrs.  Clark  ? 
— it  could  not  recall  the  wasted  hours  ; 
and  the  old  lady  had  done  her  best 
according  to  her  feeble  judgment. 

Without  the  loss  of  an  unnecessary 
moment,  without  breakfast,  George 
Godolphin  hastened  to  the  railway 
station,  and  found  himself  just  in  time 
to  miss  an  express  train  that  would 
have  carried  him  direct  to  Prior's  Ash. 
Chafing  at  the  delay  he  was  con- 
demned to,  at  his  own  impatience,  at 
the  misapprehension  with  regard  to 
the  dispatch,  chafing  at  the  general 
state  of  things  altogether,  George 
could  only  bend  to  circumstances,  and 
he  did  not  arrive  at  Prior's  Ash  until 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

The  first  person  he  saw  at  the  ter- 
minus was  Lord  Averil.  That  noble- 
man, wondering  at  George's  non-ap- 
pearance, believing  that  Maria  was 
getting   nearer  to  death  with    every 


THE      SHADOW      OF      AS  II  L  YD  Y  AT, 


421 


hour,  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
by  some  mischance  his  message  had 
miscarried ;  and  he  had  now  gone  to 
the  station  to  send  another.  Lord 
Averil  linked  his  arm  within  George's, 
and  they  walked  rapidly  away  through 
the  snow  that  lay  on  the  path. 

Yes,  he,  the  Viscount  Averil,  Peer 
of  the  Realm,  linked  his  arm  with 
George  Godolphin's,  who  had'so  very 
near  been  held  up  to  the  virtuous 
British  public  as  a  candidate  for  a  free 
passage  to  Australia.  Somehow, 
George  had  slipped  through  that  dan- 
ger and  was  a  gentleman  still :  more- 
over, he  was  Lord  Averil's  brother-in- 
law,  and  it  was  the  earnest  wish  of 
that  nobleman  that  general  society 
should  forget  that  little  mistake  in 
George's  life  as  heartily  as  he  did. 
He  explained  as  he  walked  along : 
that  Maria  had  got  rapidly  worse  all 
at  once ;  that  it  was  only  within  a  few 
hours  that  immediate  danger  had 
shown  itself. 

Still,  George  could  not  understand 
it.  He  had  left  his  wife  sick,  certainly, 
but  not,  as  he  believed,  seriously  ill ; 
he  had  supposed  her  to  be  busy  in 
her  preparations  for  the  voyage  :  and 
now  to  be  told  that  she  was  dying  ! 
No,  George  could  not  understand  it, 
and  scarcely  believed  it.  If  this  was 
so,  why  had  Maria  not  sent  for  him 
before  ? 

Lord  Averil  was  unable  to  give  him 
more  explanatory  information.  It  was 
only  the  evening  before  that  Cecil  had 
called  upon  her,  called  accidentally, 
and  learned  it,  he  said.  It  was  only 
that  morning,  as  Lord  Averil  had  now 
heard,  that  Mr.  Hastings  and  his 
family  had  learned  it.  LTntil  that 
morning,  nay  until  an  hour  or  two 
ago,  Maria  herself  had  not  imagined 
the  danger  to  be  so  near:  and  she 
heartily  thanked  Lord  Averil  for  hav- 
ing had  the  forethought  to  telegraph. 

"  Snow  must  have  known  it,"  re- 
monstrated George. 

"  I  think  not.  I  was  talking  to  him 
to-day,  and  he  expressed  his  surprise 
at  the  disorder's  having  suddenly  in- 
creased in  this  rapid  manner." 

"What  as  the    disorder?"    asked 


George.     "  My  wife  had  no  disorder 
— except  weakness." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  it — weakness." 

"But  weakness  does  not  kill!" 

"Yes  it  does.  Sometimes." 
.  Margery  was  standing  at  the  door 
when  they  reached  the  gate,  possibly 
looking  out  for  her  master,  for  she 
knew  the  hours  of  the  arrivals  of  the 
train.  The  windows  of  the  sitting- 
room  faced  that  way,  and  George's 
eyes  naturally  turned  on  them.  But 
there  was  no  sign  of  busy  life,  of  every- 
day occupation,  the  curtains  hung  in 
their  undisturbed  folds,  the  blinds 
were  partially  down. 

"  I  will  just  ask  how  your  wife  is 
now,  and  whether  Cecil  is  here,"  said 
Lord  Averil,  following  George  up  the 
path. 

No,  Lady  Averil  and  Miss  Bessy 
Godolphin  had  left  about  ten  minutes 
before,  Margery  said.  My  Lady  Go- 
dolphin,  who  had  drove  up  in  her 
carriage  and  come  in  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  she  had  left ;  and  Miss  Rose 
Hastings,  who  had  been  there  the  best 
part  of  the  morning,  had  also  left. 
Mrs.  George  Godolphin  seemed  a  trifle 
better,  inclined  to  sleep,  tired  out,  as 
it  were ;  and  she,  Margery,  didn't 
wonder  at  it  with  such  a  heap  of  visi- 
tors :  she  had  give  'em  a  broad  hint 
herself  that  her  mistress  might  be  all 
the  better  for  an  hour's  quiet. 

Lord  Averil  departed.  George  flung 
his  rail  way- wrapper  on  a  chair  and 
hung  his  hat  up  in  the  little  hall :  he 
turned  his  face,  one  of  severity  then, 
on  Margery. 

"  Is  your  mistress  so  very  ill  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  that  she  can  be  much 
worse,  sir.  When  Mr.  Snow  went 
out  just  now  he  said  she  was  better. 
She  is  better  than  she  was  in  the 
morning,  or  she  couldn't  be  sitting 
up." 

"And  now,  Margery,  why  was  I 
not  sent  for  earlier  ?  The  blame  must 
lie  with  you." 

"  I  can't  help  it,  sir :  you  must 
blame  me  if  you  will.  Why,  Mr. 
George,"  she  continued,  raising  her 
voice  in  atone  of  defence,  "if  I  had 
had  a  thought  that  she  was  comin<r  ou 


422 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


to  be  like  this,  do  you  suppose  I  should 
not  have  sent?  Yesterday  morning, 
when  she  was  worse,  I  said  master 
ought  to  be  writ  to,  and  she  said  she'd 
write  herself.  She  did  write,  but  she 
didn't  get  it  ready  till  evening,  and 
my  Lord  Averil,  he  telegraphed.  It 
is  only  this  morning,  sir,  that  down- 
right danger  has  come  on." 

"  She  cannot  be  so  very  ill  as  they 
would  imply ;  she  cannot  be  beyond 
hope,"  he  cried,  in  an  impassioned 
tone. 

"Well,  sir,  I  don't  know,"  answered 
Margery,  willing  perhaps  to  soothe  the 
facts  to  him  by  degrees,  as  Mrs.  Clark 
had  been  by  the  telegraphic  message. 
"  She  is  certainly  better  than  she  was 
in  the  morning.     She  is  sitting  up." 

George  Godolphin  was  of  a  hopeful 
nature.  Even  those  few  words  seemed 
to  speak  to  his  heart  with  a  certainty. 
"  Not  there,  sir,"  interposed  Margery, 
as  he  opened  the  door  of  the  sitting- 
room.  "  But  it  don't  matter,"  she 
added  :  "you  can  go  in  that  way." 

He  walked  through  the  room  and 
opened  that  of  the  bedchamber. 
Would  the  scene  ever  leave  his  mem- 
ory ?  The  room  was  lighted  more  by 
the  blaze  of  the  fire  than  by  the  day- 
light, for  curtains  partially  covered 
the  windows  and  the  winter's  dreary 
afternoon  was  already  merging  into 
twilight.  The  bed  was  at  the  far  end 
of  the  room,  the  dressing-table  near 
it.  The  fire  was  on  his  right  as  he 
entered,  and  on  a  white-covered  sofa, 
drawn  before  it,  sat  Maria.  She  was 
partially  dressed  and  wrapped  in  a 
light  cashmere  shawl ;  her  cap  was 
untied,  and  her  face,  shaded  though  it 
was  by  its  brown  hair,  was  all  too 
visible  in  the  reflection  cast  by  the  fire- 
light. 

Which  was  the  most  colorless, — 
that  face,  or  the  white  cover  of  the 
sofa  ?  George  Godolphin's  heart  stood 
still  as  he  looked  upon  it  and  then 
bounded  on  with  a  rushing  leap. 
Every  shadow  of  hope  had  gone  out 
of  him. 

Maria  had  not  heard  him,  did  not 
see  him  ;  he  went  in  gently.  By  her 
side  on  the  sofa  lay  Miss  Meta,  curled 


up  into  a  ball  and  fast  asleep,  her 
hands  and  ■  her  golden  curls  on  her 
mamma's  knee.  With  George's  first 
step  forward,  Maria  turned  her  sad, 
sweet  eyes  towards  him,  and  a  faint 
cry  of  emotion  escaped  her  lips. 

Before  she  could  stir  or  speak, 
George  was  with  her,  his  protecting 
arms  thrown  round  her,  her  face 
gathered  to  his  breast.  What  a  con- 
trast it  was  !  she  so  wan  and  fragile, 
so  near  the  grave,  he  in  all  his  manly 
strength,  his  fresh  beauty.  Miss  Meta 
woke  up,  recognized  her  papa  with  a 
cry  and  much  commotion,  but  Margery 
came  in  and  carried  her  oft",  shutting 
the  door  behind  her. 

Her  fair  young  face, — too  fair  and 
young  to  die, — was  laid  against  her 
husband's  ;  her  feeble  hand  lay  caress- 
ingly in  his.  The  shock  to  George 
was  very  great ;  it  almost  seemed 
that  he  had  already  lost  her  ;  and  the 
scalding  tears,  so  rarely  wrung  from 
man,  coursed  down  his  cheeks  and 
fell  on  her  face. 

"  Don't  grieve,"  she  whispered,  the 
tears  raining  from  her  own  eyes. 
"  Oh,  George,  my  husband,  it  is  a  bit- 
ter thing  to  part,  but  we  shall  meet 
again  in  heaven,  and  be  together  for- 
ever. It  has  been  so  weary  here  ;  the 
troubles  have  been  so  great !" 

He  steadied  his  voice  to  speak. 
"  The  troubles  have  not  killed  you, 
have  they,  Maria  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  has  been  so.  I 
did   try  and   struggle    against   them, 

but, — I  don't  know, Oh,  George  !" 

she  broke  out  in  a  wailing  tone  of 
pain,  "  if  I  could  but  have  got  over 
them  and  lived  ! — if  I  could  but  have 
gone  with  you  to  your  new  home  !" 

George  sat  down  on  the  sofa  where 
Meta  had  been,  and  held  her  to  him 
in  silence.  She  could  hear  his  heart 
beat;  could  feel  it  bounding  against 
her  side. 

"  It  will  be  a  better  home  in  heaven," 
she  resumed,  laying  her  poor  pale  face 
upon  his  shoulder.  "  You  will  come 
to  me  there,  George  ;  I  shall  but  go 
on  first  a  little  while  ;  all  the  pains 
and  the  cares,  the  heart-burnings  of 
earth  will  be  forgotten,  and  we  shall 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASDLYDYAT, 


423 


be  together  in  happiness  forever  and 
ever." 

He  dropped  his  face  upon  her  neck, 
he  sobbed  aloud  in  his  anguish. 
Whatever  may  have  been  his  grace- 
lessness  and  his  faults,  he  had  loved 
his  wife  ;  and  now  that  he  was  losing 
her  that  love  was  greater  than  it  had 
ever  been  :  some  pricks  of  conscience 
may  have  been  mingled  with  it,  too  ! 
Who  knows  ? 

"  Don't  forget  me  quite  when  I  am 
gone,  George.  Think  of  me  some- 
times as  your  poor  wife  who  loved 
you  to  the  last :  who  would  have 
stayed  with  you  if  God  had  let  her. 
When  first  I  began  to  see  that  it  must 
be,  that  I  should  leave  you  and  Meta, 
my  heart  nearly  broke :  but  the  pain 
has  grown  less,  and  I  think  God  has 
been  reconciling  me  to  it." 

"What  shall  I  do  ?— what  will  the 
child  do  without  you  ?"  broke  from 
his  quivering  lips. 

Perhaps  the  thought  crossed  Maria 
that  he  had  done  very  well  without 
her  in  the  last  few  months,  for  his 
sojourns  with  her  might  be  counted 
by  hours  instead  of  by  days :  but  she 
was  too  generous  to  allude  to  it ;  and 
the  heartaching  had  passed.  "  Cecil 
and  Lord  Averil  will  take  Meta,"  she 
said.  "Let  her  stay  with  them,  George! 
It  would  not  be  well  for  her  to  go  to 
India  alone  with  you." 

The  words  surprised  him.  He  did 
not  speak. 

"  Cecil  proposed  it  yesterday.  They 
will  be  glad  to  have  her.  I  dare  say 
Lord  Averil  will  speak  to  you  about 
it  later.  It  was  the  one  great  weight 
left  upon  my  mind,  George, — our  poor 
child,  and  what  could  be  done  with 
her :  Cecil's  generous  proposal  re- 
moved it." 

"Yes,"  said  George,  hesitatingly. 
"  For  a  little  while  ;  perhaps  it  will 
be  the  best  thing.  Until  I  shall  get 
settled  in  India.  But  she  must  come 
to  me  then;  1  cannot  part  with  her 
for  good. " 

"For  good?  No.  But,  George, 
you  may, — it  is  possible," — she  seemed 
to  stammer  and  hesitate, — "you  may 
be  forming-  new  ties.     In  that  case 


you  would  care  less  for  the  loss  of 
Meta " 

"  Don't  talk  so  !"  he  passionately 
interrupted.  "  How  can  you  glance 
to  such  things,  Maria,  in  these  our 
last  moments  ?" 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes, 
weeping  softly.  "  Had  this  parting 
come  upon  me  as  suddenly  as  it  has 
upon  you,  I  might  have  started  from 
the  very  thought  with  horror  :  but, 
George,  I  have  had  nothing  else  in  my 
own  mind  for  weeks  but  the  parting, 
and  it  has  made  me  look  at  the  future 
as  I  could  not  else  have  looked  at  it. 
Do  not  blame  me  for  saying  this  :  I 
must  allude  to  it,  if  I  am  to  speak  of 
Meta.  I' can  understand  how  full  of 
aversion  the  thought  is  to  you  now : 
but,  George,  it  may  come  to  pass." 

"  I  think  not,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  and  manner  had  changed  to 
grave  deliberation.  "  If  I  know  any- 
thing of  myself,  Maria,  I  shall  never 
again  marry." 

"  It  is  not  impossible." 

"No,"  he  assented,  "it  is  not  im- 
possible." 

Her  heart  beat  a  shade  quicker,  and 
she  hid  her  face  upon  him  so  that  he 
could  not  see  it.  When  she  spoke 
again,  it  was  with  difficulty  he  could 
catch  the  whispered  words. 

"  I  know  how  foolish  and  wrong  it 
is  for  a  dying  wife  to  extract  any 
promise  of  this  nature  from  her  hus- 
band :  were  I  to  say  to  you,  Do  not 
again  marry,  it  would  be  little  else 
than  a  wicked  request ;  and  it  would 
prove  how  my  thoughts  and  passions 
must  still  cling  to  earth.  Bear  with 
me  while  I  speak  of  this,  George  :  1 
am  not  going  to  be  so  wicked  :  but, — 
but " 

Agitation  stopped  her  voice.  Her 
bosom  heaved,  her  breath  nearly  left 
her,  and  she  had  to  catch  it  in  gasps. 
He  saw  that  this  was  mental  emotion, 
not  bodily  weakness  ;  and  he  waited 
until  it  should  pass,  stroking  the 
hair  from  her  brow  with  his  gentle 
hand. 

"  My  darling,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  But  there  is  one  promise  that  I  do 
wish  to   beg  of  you,"   she  resumed, 


424 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT, 


mastering  her  emotion  sufficiently  to 
speak.  "  If — if  you  should  marry, 
and  your  choice  falls  upon  one — upon 
her — then,  in  that  case,  do  not  seek  to 
have  Meta  home  ;  let  her  remain  al- 
ways with  Cecil." 

A  pause  :  broken  by  George.  "  Of 
whom  do  you  speak,  Maria  ?" 

The  same  laboring  of  the  breath  ; 
the  same  cruel  agitation  ;  and  they 
had  to  be  fought  with  before  she  could 
bring  out  the  words. 

"Of  Charlotte  Pain." 

"  Charlotte  Pain  !"  echoed  George, 
shouting  out  the  name  in  surprise. 

"  I  could  not  bear  it,"  she  shivered. 
"  George,  George  !  do  not  make  her 
the  second  mother  of  my  child  !  I 
could  not  bear  it ;  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  could  not  even  in  my  grave  bear  it ! 
.Should  you  marry  her,  promise  me 
that  Meta  shall  not  be  removed  from 
Ashlydyat," 

"  Maria,"  he  quietly  said,  "  I  shall 
never  marry  Charlotte  Pain." 

"  You  don't  know.  You  may  think 
now  you  will  not,  but  you  cannot  an- 
swer for  yourself.  George  !  she  has 
helped  to  kill  me.  She  must  not  be 
Meta's  second  mother." 

He  raised  her  face  so  that  he  could 
see  it :  his  dark  blue  eyes  met  hers 
*earehingly,  and  he  took  her  hand  in 
his  as  he  gravely  spoke. 

"  She  will  never  be  Meta's  second 
mother  :  nay,  if  it  will  be  more  satis- 
factory, I  will  say  she  never  shall  be. 
By  the  heaven  that  perhaps  even  I 
may  some  day  attain  to,  I  say  it. 
Charlotte  Pain  will  never  be  Meta's 
second  mother,  or  my  wife  :  and  I  af- 
firm it  in  the  presence  of  God." 

She  did  not  answer  in  words.  She 
only  nestled  a  little  nearer  to  him  in 
gratitude, — half  in  repentance,  per- 
haps, for  having  doubted  him.  George 
resumed  in  the  same  grave  tone. 

"And  now,  Maria,  tell  me  what  you 
mean  b}r  saying  that  Charlotte  Tain 
has  helped  to  kill  you." 

A  crimson  flush  came  over  her  wan 
face,  and  she  contrived  to  turn  it  from 
him  again,  so  that  her  eyes  were  hid- 
den. But  she  did  not  speak  quite  at 
first. 


"  It  all  came  upon  me  together, 
George,"  she  murmured  at  length,  her 
tone  one  of  loving  tenderness,  in  token 
that  she  was  not  angry  now  ;  that  the 
past,  whatever  may  have  been  its  sins 
against  her,  any  or  none,  was  forgiven. 
"  At  that  cruel  time  when  the  blow 
fell,  when  I  had  nowhere  to  turn  to 
for  comfort,  then  I  also  learnt  what 
Prior's  Ash  had  been  saying,  about — 
about  Charlotte  Pain.  George,  it 
seemed  to  wither  my  very  heart ;  to 
take  the  life  out  of  it.  I  had  so  loved 
you ;  I  had  so  trusted  you  ;  and  to 
find — to  find — that  you  loved  her,  not 
me " 

"  Hush  !"  thundered  George,  in  his 
emotion.  "  I  never  loved  any  but  you, 
Maria.     I  swear  it." 

"Well — well.  It  seems  that  I  do 
not  understand  it.  I — I  could  not 
get  over  it,"  she  continued,  passing 
her  hand  across  her  brow  where  the 
old  aching  pain  had  come  momenta- 
rily again,  "  and  I  fear  it  has  helped 
to  kill  me.  It  was  so  cruel,  to  have 
suffered  me  to  know  her  all  the 
while." 

George  Godolphin  compressed  his 
lips.     He  never  spoke. 

"  But,  George,  it  is  over ;  it  is 
buried  in  the  past ;  and  I  did  not  in- 
tend to  mention  it.  I  should  not  have 
mentioned  it  but  for  speaking  of  Meta. 
Oh,  let  it  go  ;  let  it  pass  ;  it  need  not 
disturb  our  last  hour  together." 

"  It  appears  to  have  disturbed  you 
a  great  deal  more  than  it  need  have 
done,"  he  said,  a  shade  of  anger  in 
his  tone. 

"  Yes,  looking  back,  I  see  it  did. 
When  we  come  to  the  closing  scene  of 
life,  as  I  have  come,  this  world  shut- 
ting itself  to  our  view,  the  next  open- 
ing, then  we  see  how  foolish  in  many 
things  we  have  been  ;  how  worse  than 
vain  our  poor  earthly  passions.  So  to 
have  fretted  ourselves  over  this  little 
space  of  existence  with  its  passing 
follies,  its  temporary  interests,  when 
we  might  have  been  living  and  look- 
ing for  that  great  one  that  shall  last  for- 
ever !  To  gaze  back  on  my  life,  it  seems 
but  a  little  span, — a  worthless  hour 
compared  with  the  eternity  that  I  am 


T  11  K      SHADOW      OP      ASIILYDYAT, 


425 


entering  upon.  Oh,  George,  we  have 
all  need  of  God's  loving  forgiveness  ! 
I,  as  well  as  you.  I  did  not  mean  to 
reproach  you :  but  I  could  not  bear — 
had  you  made  her  your  second  wife 
— that  she  should  have  had  the  train- 
ing of  Meta." 

Did  George  Godolphin  doubt  wheth- 
er the  fear  were  wholly  erased  from 
her  heart?  Perhaps  so  :  or  he  might 
not  have  spoken  to  her  as  he  was 
about  to  speak. 

"  Let  me  set  your  mind  further  at 
rest,  Maria.  Had  I  ever  so  great  an 
inclination  to  marry  Mrs.  Pain,  it  is 
impossible  that  I  could  do  so.  Mrs. 
Pain  has  a  husband  already." 

Maria  raised  her  face,  a  flashing 
light,  as  of  joy,  illumining  it.  George 
saw  it:  and  a  sad,  dreamy  look  of 
self-condemnation  settled  on  his  own. 
Had  it  so  stabbed  her.  "Is  she  mar- 
ried again  ? — since  she  left  Prior's 
Ash  ?" 

"  She  has  never  been  a  widow,  Ma- 
ria," he  answered.  "  Rodolf  Pain, 
her  husband,  did  not  die." 

"  He  did  not  die  ?" 

"As  it  appears.  He  is  now  back 
again  in  England." 

"And  did  you  know  of  this  ?" 

"  Only  since  his  return.  I  supposed 
her  to  be  a  widow,  as  everybody  else 
supposed  it.  One  night  last  summer, 
in  quitting  Ashlydyat,  I  came  upon 
them  both  in  the  grounds,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Pain  ;  and  I  then  learned,  to  my 
very  great  surprise,  that  he,  whom  his 
wife  had  passed  off  as  dead,  had  in 
point  of  fact  been  in  hiding  abroad. 
There  was  some  unpleasant  mystery 
attached  to  it,  the  details  of  which  I 
have  not  concerned  myself  to  inquire 
into.  He  fell  into  trouble  I  expect,  and 
feared  his  own  country  was  too  hot  for 
him.  However  it  may  have  been,  he 
is  home  again,  and  with  her.  I  sup- 
pose the  danger  is  removed,  for  I  met 
them  together  in  Piccadilly  last  week 
walking  openly,  and  they  told  me  they 
were  looking  out  for  a  house." 

She  breathed  a  sobbing  sigh  of  re- 
lief, as  one  hears  sometimes  from  a  lit- 
tle child. 

"  But  were   Mrs.  Pain  the  widow 


she  assumed  to  be,  she  would  never 
have  been  made  my  wife.  Child  !" 
he  added,  in  momentary  irritation, 
"  don't  you  understand  things  better  ? 
She  my  wife  ! — the  second  mother, 
the  trainer  of  Meta  !  What  could  you 
be  thinking  of?  Men  do  not  marry 
women  such  as  Charlotte  Pain." 

"  Then  you  do  not  care  for  her  so 
very  much  ?" 

"  I  care  for  her  so  much,  Maria,  that 
were  I  never  to  see  her  or  hear  of  her 
again  it  would  not  give  me  one  mo- 
ment's thought,"  he  impulsively  cried. 
"  I'd  give  a  great  deal  now  not  to  have 
kept  up  our  acquaintance  with  the 
woman — if  that  had  saved  you  one 
single  iota  of  pain." 

When  these  earthly  scenes  are  clos- 
ing,— when  the  grave  is  about  to  set 
its  seal  on  one  to  whom  we  could  have 
saved  pain,  and  did  not, — when  heav- 
en's solemn  approach  is  to  be  seen, 
and  heaven's  purity  has  become  all  too 
clear  to  our  own  sight,  what  would  ice 
give,  to  change  inflicted  wrongs, — to 
blot  out  the  hideous  past !  George 
Godolphin  sat  by  the  side  of  his  dying 
wife,  his  best-beloved  in  life  as  she 
would  be  in  death,  and  bit  his  lips  in 
his  crowd  of  memories,  in  his  unavail- 
ing repentance.  Ah,  my  friends  ! 
these  moments  of  reprisal,  prolonged 
as  they  may  seem,  must  come  to  us  in 
the  end.  It  is  a  charming  thing  no 
doubt  to  ignore  them  in  our  hot- 
blooded  carelessness,  but  the  time  will 
come  when  they  find  us  out. 

He,  George  Godolphin,  had  leisure 
to  hug  them  to  himself,  and  make  the 
best  and  the  worst  of  them.  Maria, 
exhausted  with  the  excitement,  as 
much  as  by  her  own  state  of  weak- 
ness, closed  her  eyes  as  she  lay  upon 
his  breast,  and  dropped  into  a  sleep, 
and  he  sat  watching  her  face,  holding 
her  to  him,  not  daring  to  move  lest  he 
should  disturb  her,  not  daring  even  to 
lift  a  finger  and  wipe  off  his  own  bitter 
and  unavailing  tears. 

Yes,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  the 
fact, — that  the  troubles  of  one  kind 
and  another  had  been  too  much  for 
her ;  that  she  was  dying  of  them  ; 
and  he  felt  the  truth  to  his  heart's 


426 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


core.  He  felt  that  she,  that  delicate, 
refined,  sensitive  woman,  had  been  the 
very  last  who  should  have  been  treated 
rudely.  You  may  remember  it  was 
observed  at  the  beginning  of  her  his- 
tory that  she  was  one  unfit  to  battle 
with  the  world's  sharp  storms.  It 
had  now  proved  so.  Charlotte  Pain 
would  have  braved  them,  whatever 
their  nature,  have  weathered  them 
jauntily  on  a  prancing  saddle-horses 
Maria  had  sunk  down,  crushed  with 
their  weight.  II  y  a — let  me  once 
more  repeat  it ! — il  y  a  des  femmes  et 
des  femmes. 


CHAPTER   LXXI. 

GRACE   AKEMAN'S   REPENTANCE. 

There  came  one  with  hurried  steps 
up  the  garden  path,  with  hurried 
steps  and  a  distressed,  anxious  count- 
enance :  passing  Margery  in  the  pas- 
sage, passing  Meta,  she  bore  on  as  if 
no  power  on  earth  should  stop  her, 
and  entered  the  sick-chamber. 

It  was  Grace,  Mrs.  Akeman.  This 
sudden  change  in  the  illness  of  Maria 
had  certainly  come  at  an  inopportune 
time.  Mrs.  Hastings  was  out  for  a 
week,  Grace  had  gone  out  for  the  day 
with  her  husband  some  miles  into  the 
country.  A  messenger  was  sent  to 
her,  and  it  brought  her  home. 

It  brought  her  home  with  a  self- 
condemning  conscience.  Maria  dying  ! 
— when  Grace  had  only  thought  of  her 
as  going  flaunting  off  to  India  ;  when 
she  had  that  very  day  remarked  to 
her  husband,  as  they  drove  along  the 
snowy  road  in  his  four-wheeled  chaise 
stuffed  full  behind  with  architectural 
plans,  that  some  people  had  all  the 
luck  of  it  in  this  world,  and  that  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  George  Godolphin,  she  sup- 
posed, would  soon  be  swaying  it  in 
the  Bengal  presidency,  as  they  had 
swayed  it  in  Priors  Ash.  Maria  dy- 
ing !  dying  of  the  trouble,  the  sorrow, 
the  disgrace,  the  humiliation,  the  neg- 


lect !  dying  of  a  broken  heart !  It 
came  flashing  into  Grace  Akeman's 
mind  that  she  might  have  taken  a  dif- 
ferent view  of  her  conduct ;  have  be- 
lieved in  the  wrongs  of  wives,  who 
are  bound  to  their  husbands  for  worse 
as  well  as  for  better, — it  came  into  her 
mind  that  she  might  have  accorded 
her  a  little  sisterly  sympathy  instead 
of  reproach. 

She  came  in  now  brimming  ove" 
with  repentance;  she  came  in  with  a 
sort  of  belief  that  things  could  not 
have  gone  so  very  far ;  that  there 
must  be  some  remedy  still ;  some 
hope  ;  and  that  if  she,  Grace,  exerted 
her  energies  to  arouse  Maria,  health 
and  life  would  come  again.  It  was 
terrible  ill-luck  which  had  taken  her 
out  of  Prior's  Ash  that  particular  day. 
Mr.  Akeman  had  told  her  she  had 
better  not  accompany  him  as  the  snow 
had  come,  but  she  had  laid  her  plans 
previously  to  go,  and  Grace  was  one 
to  take  her  own  will.  And  so,  what 
with  the  tardiness  of  the  messenger, 
and  what  with  the  snow,  the  evening 
shades  were  over  the  earth  before  she 
got  back  to  Prior's  Ash. 

Maria  had  awoke  out  of  her  tem- 
porary slumber  then,  and  George  was 
standing  with  his  arm  on  the  mantel- 
piece. A  half-frown  crossed  his  brow 
when  he  saw  Grace  enter.  He  had 
never  liked  her  ;  he  was  conscious  that 
she  had  not  been  kind  to  Maria,  and 
he  deemed  her  severe  manner  and  tart 
voice  scarcely  suitable  to  that  dying- 
chamber.  But  she  was  his  wife's 
sister,  and  he  advanced  to  welcome 
her. 

Grace  did  not  see  his  welcome ; 
would  not  see  it.  Perhaps  in  truth 
she  was  wholly  absorbed  by  the  sight 
which  met  her  view  in  Maria.  Rem- 
edy still  ? — hope  yet  ?  Ah  no  !  death 
was  there,  was  upon  her,  and  Grace 
burst  into  tears.  Maria  held  out  her 
hand,  a  smile  lighting  up  her  wan 
countenance. 

"  I  thought  you  were  not  coming  to 
see  me,  Grace." 

"I  was  out.  I  went  to  Hamlet's 
Wood   this   morning;   with   Mr.  Ake- 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


427 


man,"  sobbed  Grace.  "  Whatever  is 
the  reason  that  you  have  suddenly- 
grown  so  ill  as  this  f" 

"  I  have  been  growing  ill  a  long 
time,"  was  Maria's  answer. 

"  But  there  must  be  hope  I"  said 
Grace,  in  her  quick  way.  "  Mr.  George 
Godolphin,"  —  turning  to  him  and 
dashing  away  the  tears  on  her  cheeks, 
as  if  she  would  not  betray  them  to 
him, — "  surely  there  must  be  hope  ! 
What  do  the  medical  men  say  ?." 

"  There  is  no  hope,  Grace,"  inter- 
posed Maria,  in  her  low,  feeble  voice. 
"  The  medical  men  know  there  is  not. 
Dr.  Beale  came  with  Mr.  Snow  at  mid- 
day ;  but  their  coming  at  all  is  a  mere 
form  now." 

Grace  untied  her  bonnet  and  sat 
down.  "I  thought,"  said  she,  "you 
were  getting  well." 

Maria  made  a  slight  motion  of  dis- 
sent. "  I  have  not  thought  it  myself; 
not  really  thought  it.  I  hoped  it 
might  be  so,  and  the  hope  prevented 
my  speaking ;  but  there  was  always 
an  under-current  of  conviction  to  the 
contrary  in  my  heart." 

George  looked  at  her,  half-reproach- 
fully.  She  understood  the  look,  and 
answered  it. 

"I  wish  now  I  had  told  you,  George  ; 
but  I  was  not  sure.  And  if  I  had 
spoken  you  would  only  have  laughed 
at  me  then  in  disbelief." 

"  You  speak  very  calmly,  Mai'ia," 
said  Grace,  with  passionate  earnest- 
ness. "  Have  you  no  regret  at  leav- 
ing us  ?" 

A  faint  hectic  shone  suddenly  in 
Maria's  cheek.  "  Regret !"  she  re- 
peated with  emotion,  "my  days  have 
been  one  long  regret, — one  long,  wea- 
rying pain.  Don't  you  see  it  is  the 
pain  that  has  killed  me,  Grace  ?  But 
it  is  over  now,  through  God's  mercy," 
she  added,  in  a  calmer  tone.  "  The 
bitterness  of  death  has  passed." 

Grace's  temper  was  sharp,  her  sense 
of  right  and  wrong  cynically  keen. 
The  rector  had  had  the  same  sharp 
temper  in  his  youth,  but  he  had  learned 
to  control  it ;  Grace  had  not.  She 
turned  her  flashing  eyes,  her  flaming 
cheeks,  on  George  Godolphin. 


"  Do  you  hear, — the  pain  has  killed 
her  ?  Who  brought  that  pain  upon 
her  ?  Mr.  George  Godolphin,  I  wish 
you  joy  of  your  conscience  I  I  almost 
seemed  to  foresee  it, — I  almost  seemed 
to  foresee  this,"  she  passionately  cried, 
"ere  ever  my  sister  married  you." 

"Don't,  Grace!"  wailed  Maria,  a 
faint  cry  of  fear  escaping  her,  a  sud- 
den terror  taking  possession  of  her 
raised  face.     "  George,  George  !" 

She  held  out  her  hands  yearningly 
to  him,  as  if  she  would  shield  him,  or 
as  if  she  wanted  him  to  shield  her 
from  the  sharp  words.  George  crossed 
over  to  her  with  his  protecting  pres- 
ence, and  bent  to  catch  her  whisper 
praying  him  for  peace. 

"  You  forget  your  sister's  state  when 
you  thus  speak,  Mrs.  Akeman,"  he 
gravely  said.  "  Say  any  thing  you 
please  to  me  later, — you  shall  have  the 
opportunity  if  you  desire  it, — but  in 
my  wife's  presence  there  must  be 
peace." 

Grace  flung  off  the  shawl  which  she 
had  worn,  and  stood  beating  the  toe 
of  her  boot  upon  the  fender,  her  throat 
swelling,  her  chest  heaving  with  the 
effort  of  subduing  her  emotion.  What 
with  her  anger  in  the  past,  her  grief 
in  the  present,  she  had  well-nigh  burst 
into  shrieking  sobs. 

"  I  think  I  could  drink  some  tea," 
said  Maria.  "  Could  we  not  have  it 
together  here,  for  the  last  time  ?  You 
will  make  it,  Grace." 

Poor,  weak,  timid  heart !  Perhaps 
she  only  so  spoke  as  an  incentive  to 
keep  that "  peace  "  for  which  she  trem- 
blingly yearned  ;  which  was  essential 
to  her,  as  to  all,  in  her  dying  hour. 
George  rang  the  bell  and  Margery 
came  in. 

It  was  done  as  she  seemed  to  wish. 
The  small  round  table  was  drawn  to 
the  fire,  and  Grace  sat  at  it  making 
the  tea.  Maria  turned  her  face  and 
asked  for  Meta.  Mai'gery  answered 
that  she  was  coming  in  by-and-by. 
Yery  little  was  said.  George  drew  a 
chair  near  Maria  and  leaned  upon  the 
arm  of  the  sofa.  The  tea,  so  far  as 
she  went,  was  a  superfluous  mockery. 
George  put  a  teaspoonful  in  her  mouth, 


428 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHL1DYAT, 


but  she  with  difficulty  swallowed  it, 
and  shook  her  head  when  he  would 
have  given  her  more.  It  did  not  seem 
to  be  much  else  than  a  mockery  for  the 
others  :  Grace's  tears  dropped  into 
hers,  and  George  suffered  his  to  get 
cold  and  then  swallowed  it  at  a  draught, 
as  if  it  was  a  relief  to  get  rid  of  it. 
Margery  was  called  again  to  take  it 
away,  and  Maria,  who  was  lying  back 
on  the  sofa  with  closed  eyes,  asked 
again  for  Meta  to  come  in. 

Then  Margery  had  to  confess  that 
Miss  Meta  was  not  at  home  to  come 
in.  She  had  gone  out  visiting.  The 
facts  of  the  case  were  these.  Lord 
Averil  after  quitting  the  house  had  re- 
turned to  it  to  say  a  word  to  George 
which  he  had  forgotten,  but  finding 
George  had  gone  into  his  wife's  room 
he  would  not  .let  him  be  disturbed.  It 
was  just  at  the  moment  that  Margery 
had  carried  out  Meta,  and  the  young 
lady  was  rather  restive  at  the  proceed- 
ings, crying  loudly. 

"What  is  the  grievance,  Meta?" 
asked  his  lordship. 

"  The  grievance  is  just  this, — that 
because  it's  necessary  to  keep  a 
quiet  house  to-day  she's  making  it  a 
noisy  one,"  said  Margery,  explosively. 
"Twice  that  I  have  brought  her  out 
of  the  room  she  has  roared  out  like 
this.  She  can't  be  in  there  every  mo- 
ment, fit  or  unfit,  as  my  lord  knows." 

Lord  Averil  looked  up  at  the  skies. 
They  were  dreary  enough,  but  still 
not  so  bad  as  they  had  been,  and  a  lit- 
tle bit  of  blue  was  struggling  forth  in 
the  wintry  afternoon.  "  It  will  not 
snow  again  yet,"  said  Lord  Averil. 
"  Let  me  take  her  up  for  an  hour  or 
two  to  Ashlydyat.  Will  you  come, 
Meta,  and  see  Aunt  Cecil  ?" 

Meta  looked  at  him,  her  large  eyes 
full  of  tears.  "Mamma's  going  to 
die.     I  want  to  stop  with  her." 

"Poor  little  orphan  !"  he  muttered 
to  himself,  stroking  her  golden  curls. 
"  I  will  bring  you  back  to  mamma  very 
soon,  Meta,"  he  said,  aloud.  "  She  had 
better  come,  Margery  ;  it  will  be  a 
change  for  her,  and  keep  the  house 
quiet  for  the  time." 

Meta,  soothed  probably  by  the  prom- 


ise of  being  brought  back  soon,  made 
no  opposition,  and  Margery  without 
the  least  ceremony  took  down  a  woolen 
shawl  and  her  garden-hat  that  were 
hanging  on  the  pegs  and  enveloped 
her  in  them.  "  They'll  do  as  well  as 
getting  out  her  best  things,  my  lord, 
if  you  won't  mind  'em  :  and  it'll  be 
dusk  a'most  by  the  time  you  get  to 
Ashlydyat." 

It  was  quite  the  same  to  Lord  Av- 
eril whether  the  young  lady  was  bun- 
dled up  as  she  was  now  or  decked  out 
in  a  lace  frock  and  crinoline.  He  led 
her  down  the  path,  talking  pleasantly  ; 
but  Meta's  breath  was  caught  up  in- 
cessantly with  sobbing  sighs.  Her 
heart  was  full,  imperfect  as  her  idea 
of  the  calamity  overshadowing  her 
necessarily  was. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Miss  Meta 
was  not  at  hand  when  Maria  asked 
for  her.  Whether  it  was  from  this,  or 
from  causes  wholly  unconnected  with 
it,  in  a  short  while  Maria  grew  rest- 
less,— restless,  as  it  seemed,  both  in 
body  and  mind, — and  it  was  deemed 
advisable  that  she  should  not  sit  up 
longer. 

"  Go  for  Meta  while  they  get  me 
into  bed,  George,"  she  said  to  him. 
"  I  want  her  to  be  near  me." 

He  went  out  at  once  ;  but  he  did 
not  immediate!}7"  turn  to  Ashlydyat. 
With  hasty  steps  he  took  the  road  to 
Mr.  Snow's.  There  had  been  a  yearn- 
ing on  George  Godolphin's  mind  ever 
since  he  first  saw  his  wife  in  the  after- 
noon, to  put  the  anxious  question  to 
one  or  both  of  the  medical  men  :  "  Can 
nothing  be  done  to  prolong  her  life, 
even  for  the  shortest  space  ?" 

Mr.  Snow  was  out ;  the  surgery  boy 
did  not  know  where.  "  Paying  visits," 
he  supposed.  And  George  turned  his 
steps  to  Dr.  Beale's,  who  lived  now  in 
Prior's  Ash,  though  he  had  not  used 
to  live  in  it.  Dr.  Beale's  house  was 
ablaze  with  light,  and  Dr.  Beale  was 
at  home,  the  servant  said,  but  he  had 
a  dinner-party. 

How  the  words  seemed  to  grate  on 
his  ear  1  A  dinner-party  ! — gayety, 
lights,  noise,  mirth,  eating  and  toast- 
drinking  wThen  his  wife  was  dying  ! 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


429 


But  the  next  moment  his  reflection 
came  to  him :  the  approaching  death 
of  a  patient  is  not  wont  to  cast  its  in- 
fluence on  a  physician's  private  life. 

He  demanded  to  see  Dr.  Beale  in 
spite  of  the  dinner-party.  George  Go- 
dolphin  forgot  recent  occurrences,  ex- 
acting still  the  deference  paid  to  him  all 
his  life,  when  Prior's  Ash  had  bowed 
down  to  the  Godolphins.  He  was 
shown  into  a  room,  and  Dr.  Beale 
came  out  to  him. 

But  the  doctor,  though  he  would 
willingly  have  soothed  matters  to  him, 
could  not  give  him  hope.  George 
asked  for  the  truth,  and  he  got  it — 
that  his  wife's  life  now  might  be 
counted  by  hours.  He  went  out  and 
proceeded  towards  Ashlydyat,  taking 
the  near  way  down  Crosse  Street,  by 
the  bank — the  bank  that  once  was  :  it 
would  lead  him  through  the  dull  Ash- 
Tree  walk  with  its  ghostly  story  ;  but 
what  eared  George  Godolphin  ? 

Did  a  remembrance  of  the  past  come 
over  him  as  he  glanced  up  at  the  bank's 
well-known  windows  ?  —  a  remem- 
brance that  pricked  him  with  its  sharp 
sting?  He  need  never  have  left  that 
house ;  but  for  his  own  recklessness, 
folly,  wickedness — call  it  what  you  will 
— he  might  have  been  in  it  still,  one  of 
the  honored  Godolphins,  heir  to  Ashly- 
dyat, his  wife  well  and  happy  by  his 
side.  Now  ! — he  went  striding  on 
with  wide  steps,  and  he  took  off  his 
hat  and  raised  his  burning  brow  to 
the  keen  night  air.  You  may  leave 
the  house  behind  you,  George  Godol- 
phin, and  so  put  it  out  of  your  sight, 
but  you  cannot  put  out  memory. 

Grace  had  remained  with  Maria. 
She  was  in  bed  now,  but  the  restless- 
ness seemed  to  continue.  "  I  want 
Meta  ;  I  want  Meta." 

"  Dear  Maria,  your  husband  has 
but  just  gone  for  her,"  breathed  Grace. 
"But  she  will  soon  be  here." 

It  seemed  to  satisfy  her.  She  lay 
still,  looking  upwards,  her  breath, 
or  Mrs.  Akeman  fancied  it,  getting 
shorter.  Grace,  hot  tears  blinding 
her  eyes,  bent  forward  to  kiss  her 
wasted  cheek. 

"  Maria,    I   was   verv  harsh   with 


you,"  she  whispered.  "I  feel  it  now. 
I  can  only  pray  God  to  forgive  me.  I 
loved  you  always,  and  when  that 
dreadful  trouble  came,  I  felt  angry  for 
your  sake  :  I  said  unkind  things  to 
you  and  of  you,  but  in  the  depth  of 
my  heart  there  lay  the  pain  and  the 
anger  because  you  suffered.  Will  you 
forgive  me?" 

She  raised  her  feeble  hand  and  laid 
it  lovingly  on  the  cheek  of  Grace. 
"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  Grace." 
she  murmured:  "what  are  our  poor 
little  offences  one  against  the  other  ? 
Think  how  much  Heaven  has  to  for- 
give us  all.  Oh,  Grace,  I  am  going 
to  it !     I  am  going  away  from  care." 

Grace  stood  up  to  dash  away  her 
tears ;  but  they  came  faster  and  faster. 
"  I  would  ask  you  to  let  me  atone  to 
yon,  Maria,"  she  sobbed,  "I  would 
ask  you  to  let  me  welcome  Meta  to 
our  home.  We  are  not  rich,  but  we 
have  enough  for  comfort,  and  I  will 
try  to  bring  her  up  a  good  woman ;  I 
will  love  her  as  my  own  child." 

"She  goes  to  Cecil."  There  was 
no  attempt  at  thanks  in  words,  Ma- 
ria was  growing  beyond  it;  nothing 
but  the  fresh  touch  of  the  hand's  lov- 
ing pressure.  And  that  relaxed  with 
the  next  moment  and  fell  upon  the 
bed. 

Grace  felt  somewhat  alarmed.  She 
cleared  the  mist  from  her  eyes  and 
bent  them  steadily  on  Maria's  face. 
It  seemed  to  have  changed.  "  Do 
you  feel  worse  ?"  she  softly  asked. 

Maria  opened  her  lips,  but  no  sound 
came  from  them.  She  attempted  to 
point  with  her  finger  to  the  door,  she 
then  threw  her  eyes  in  the  same  direc- 
tion ;  but  why  or  what  she  wanted  it 
was  impossible  to  tell.  Grace,  her 
heart  beating  wildly,  flew  across  the 
little  hall  to  the  kitchen. 

"  Oh,  Margery,  I  think  she  is  sink- 
ing !     Come  you  and  see." 

Margery  hastened  in.  Her  mis- 
tress evidently  ivas  sinking,  and  was 
conscious  of  it.  The  eager,  anxious 
look  upon  her  face  and  her  raised  hand 
proved  that  she  was  wanting  'some- 
thing. 

"  Is  it  my  master  ? — Is  it  the  child  ?'' 


430 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  H  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


cried    Margery,    bending    over    her. 
"They  won't  be  long,  ma'am." 

It  was  Margery's  habit  to  soothe 
the  dying,  even  if  she  had  to  do  it  at 
some  little  expense  of  veracity.  She 
knew  that  her  master  could  not  go  to 
Ashlydyat  and  be  home  just  yet :  she 
did  not  know  of  his  visits  to  the 
houses  of  the  doctors  ;  but  if  she  had 
known  it  she  would  equally  have  said, 
"  They  won't  be  long." 

But  the  eager  look  continued  on 
Maria's  face,  and  it  became  evident  to 
experienced  Margery  that  her  master 
and  Meta  were  not  the  anxious  point. 
Maria's  lips  moved,  and  Margery  bent 
her  ear. 

"Papa!    Is  it  time?" 

"  It's  the  sacrament  she's  thinking 
of,"  whispered  Margery  to  Mrs.  Ake- 
man  :  "  or  else  that  she  wants  to  take 
her  leave  of  him.  The  rector  was  to 
come  at  eight  o'clock  ;  he  told  me  so 
when  he  called  in  again  this  afternoon. 
What  is  to  be  done,  ma'am  ?" 

"And  it  is  only  half-past  six !  We 
must  send  to  him  at  once." 

Margery  seemed  in  some  uncer- 
tainty. "  Shall  you  be  afraid  to  stay 
here  alone,  ma'am,  if  I  go  ?" 

"Why!  where  is  Jean?" 

Jean,  one  of  the  old  servants  of  Ash- 
lydyat, discharged  with  the  rest  when 
the  bankruptcy  had  come,  but  now  in 
service  there  again  under  Lord  and 
Lady  Averil,  had  been  with  Margery 
all  clay.  She  had  now  been  sent  out 
by  the  latter  for  certain  errands  wanted 
in  the  town. 

A  tremor  came  over  Mrs.  Akeman 
at  Margery's  question,  as  to  whether 
she  should  be  afraid  to  stay  there 
alone.  To  one  not  accustomed  to  it, 
it  does  require  peculiar  courage  to  re- 
main with  the  dying.  But  Grace 
could  call  up  a  brave  spirit  by  dint 
of  will,  and  she  no  longer  hesitated, 
when  she  saw  the  continued  eager 
look  on  her  sister's  face. 

"  Make  you  haste,  Margery.  I 
shan't  mind.  Mrs.  James  is  in  the 
house  and  I  can  call  her  if  I  see  a 
necessity.  Margery  !" — following  her 
outside  the  door  to  whisper  it — "  do 


you  see  that  strange  look  in  her  face  ? 
Is  it  death  ?» 

She  was  shaking  all  over  as  she 
spoke,  in  nervous  trepidation.  It  was 
to  be  a  memorable  night,  that,  what 
with  one  emotion  and  another,  in  the 
memory  of  Grace  Akeman.  Mar- 
gery's answer  was  characteristic. 

"  It  does  look  like  it,  ma'am  ;  but  I 
have  seen  'em  like  this,  and  then  rally 
again.  Anyhow  it  can't  be  far  off. 
Mrs.  Akeman,  it  seems  to  me  that  all 
the  good  ones  be  leaving  the  world. 
First  Mr.  Godolphin,  and  now  her  !" 

She  had  scarcely  been  gone  five 
minutes  when  Lord  Averil  came  back 
with  Meta.  They  had  not  met  George. 
It  was  not  likely  that  they  had,  seeing 
that  he  was  going  to  Ashlydyat  by  a 
different  route.  In  point  of  fact,  at 
that  moment  George  was  about  turn- 
ing into  Crosse  Street,  passing  his 
old  house  with  those  enlivening  re- 
miniscences of  his.  Grace  explained 
why  she  was  alone,  and  Lord  Averil 
took  off  his  hat  and  coat  to  remain. 

Maria  asked  for  him.  He  went  up 
to  the  bed,  and  she  smiled  at  him  and 
moved  her  hand.  Lord  Averil  took 
it  between  his,  the  tears  gathering  in 
his  earnest  eyes  as  he  Saw  the  change 
in  her. 

"  She  has  been  as  happy  as  possible 
with  us  all  the  evening,"  he  gently 
said,  alluding  to  the  child.  "  We  will 
do  all  we  can  for  her  always." 

"  Tell  Cecil — to  bring — her  up — 
for  God." 

She  must  have  revived  a  little  or 
she  could  not  have  spoken  the  words. 
By-and-by,  Margery  was  heard  to  en- 
ter, and  Grace  went  out  to  her.  The 
woman  was  panting  with  the  speed 
she  had  made. 

"  I  run  on  first,  ma'am,  but  the 
parson  is  on  his  way.  If  you'll  please 
to  tell  my  mistress,  I'll  make  ready 
for  him.     Is  she  as  bad  now  ?" 

"  Scarcely,  I  think.  She  has  been 
speaking  to  Lord  Averil.  Who's  this  ? 
Oh,  it's  Jean." 

As  the  Beverend  Mr.  Hastings  ap- 
proached the  gate  he  saw  a  man  lean- 
ing over  it,  in  the  light  cast  by  the 


THE     SHADOW     OF     ASHLYDYAT. 


431 


■white  snow  of  the  winter's  night.     It 
was  David  Jekyl. 

"  I  thought  I'd  ask  how  the  young 
missis  was,  sir,  as  I  went  home,  but 
it  might  be  disturbing  of  'em  to  go 
right  up  to  the  door,"  he  said,  draw- 
ing back  to  make  way  for  the  rector. 
"  It  were  said  in  the  town,  as  I  came 
along,  that  she  were  worse." 

"  Yes,  David,  she  is  worse, — as  ill 
as  she  can  be.  I  have  just  had  a 
message." 

David  twirled  his  gray  beaver  hat 
awkwardly  round  on  his  hand,  strok- 
ing its  napless  surface  with  his  other 
arm.  He  did  not  raise  his  eyes  as  he 
spoke  to  the  rector. 

"  Might  be  you'd  just  say  a  word 
to  her  about  that  money,  sir,  asking 
of  her  not  to  let  it  worry  her  mind. 
It's  said  as  them  things  have  worried^ 
her  more  nor  need  be.  If  you  could 
say  a  word  for  us,  sir,  that  we  don't 
think  of  it  no  more,  it  might  comfort 
her  like." 

"  The  trouble  for  her  has  passed, 
David :  to  say  this  to  her  might  bring 
her  thoughts  back  to  it.  Heaven  is 
opening  to  her,  earth  is  closing.  Thank 
you  for  your  thoughtfulness." 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Hastings  con- 
tinued his  way  slowly  up  the  garden- 
path,  whence  the  snow  had  been  swept 
away.  Illness  was  upon  him  and  he 
could  not  walk  quickly.  It  was  a  dull 
night,  and  yet  there  was  that  peculiar 
light  in  the  atmosphere,  often  seen 
when  the  earth  is  covered  with  snow. 
The  door  was  held  open,  awaiting 
him  ;  and  the  minister  uncovered  his 
head,  and  stepped  in  with  his  solemn 
greeting : 

"  Peace  be  to  this  house,  and 
to  all  that  dwell  in  it  !" 

There  could  be  no  waiting  for  George 
Godolphin :  the  spirit  might  be  on  its 
wing.  They  gathered  in  the  room, 
Grace,  and  Margery,  and  Viscount 
Averil:  and,  the  stillness  broken  only 
by  the  sobs  of  Grace,  Mr.  Hastings 
administered  the  last  rite  of  our  reli- 
gion to  his  dying  child. 


CIIArTER    LXXII. 

THE   LAST. 

Breathe  softly,  tread  gently,  for  it 
is  the  chamber  of  the  dying!  The 
spirit  is  indeed  on  its  wing,  hovering 
on  the  very  isthmus  which  separates 
time  from  eternity. 

A  small  shaded  lamp  throws  its 
subdued  light  upon  the  room,  blend- 
ing with  the  more  ruddy  hue  cast  by 
the  fire.  The  white,  wan  face  of 
Maria  Godolphin  lies  quietly  on  the 
not  more  white  pillow, — but  "that  pil- 
low has  not  the  ghastly  blue  tinge  in 
it  which  may  be  seen  on  the  face. 
Her  breath  comes  in  short  gasps,  and 
may  be  heard  at  a  distance  ;  other- 
wise she  is  calm  and  still,  the  sweet, 
soft  eyes  are  open  yet,  and  the  world 
and  its  interests,  so  far  as  cognizance 
goes,  has  not  closed.  Meta,  in  her 
black  frock,  dressed  as  she  had  been 
in  the  day,  is  lying  on  the  bed  by 
her  mother's  side  ;  one  weak  arm  is 
thrown  round  the  child,  as  if  she 
could  not  part  with  her  greatest  earthly 
treasure  :  and  George  is  sitting  in  a 
chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  his 
elbow  on  the  pillow,  his  face  turned 
to  catch  every  shade  that  may  appear 
on  that  fading  one,  so  soon  to  be  lost 
to  him  forever. 

The  silence  was  interrupted  by  the 
striking  of  the  house-clock,  twelve  ; 
and  its  strokes  came  through  the  doors 
of  the  room  with  preternatural  loud- 
ness in  the  hushed  stillness  of  the 
midnight.  Margery  glided  in.  Mar- 
gery and  Jean  were  keeping  watch 
over  the  fire  in  the  next  room — the 
sitting-room — ready  for  any  services 
required  of  them :  and  they  knew  that 
services  for  the  dead  as  well  as  for 
the  living  would  be  wanted  that  night. 

The  doctors  had  paid  a  last  visit, 
superfluous  as  they  knew  it  to  be. 
Dr.  Beale  had  come  with  the  depart- 
ure of  his  dinner-guests, — Mr.  Snow 
earlier  in  the  evening :  she  was  dying, 
they  said,  dying  quickly, — but  calmly 
and  peacefully :  and  those  friends  who 
had  wished  to  take  their  farewell  had 
taken  it  ere  they  left  the  house,  leav- 


432 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


ing  her,  as  she  wished,  alone  with  her 
husband. 

Margery  came  in  with  a  noiseless 
step.  If  Margery  had  come  in  once 
upon  the  same  errand  which  brought 
her  now,  she  had  come  in  ten  times. 
Maria  turned  her  eyes  towards  her. 

"  She'd  be  a  sight  better  in  bed. 
It  have  gone  midnight.  It  can't  do 
no  good,  her  lying  there." 

Meta  partially  stirred  her  golden 
curls  as  she  moved  nearer  to  her 
mother,  and  Maria's  feeble  hand  tight- 
ened its  clasp  on  the  little  one.  George 
nodded :  and  Margery  went  back  rather 
in  dudgeon,  and  gave  the  fire  in  the 
next  room  a  fierce  poke. 

"  It's  not  well  to  let  her  see  a  mortal 
die.  Just  you  hold  your  tongue,  Jean, 
about  mother  and  child  !  Don't  I 
know  it's  parting  them?  —  but  the 
parting  must  come,  and  before  another 
hour  is  over,  and  I  say  it  would  be 
better  to  bring  her  away  now.  If 
there  should  be  any  thing  of  a  struggle 
at  the  last,  a  fighting  for  breath,  the 
child  will  never  get  it  out  of  her  sight. 
Master  has  no  more  sense  than  a  calf, 
or  he'd  think  of  this  and  send  her. 
Not  he  !  He  just  gave  me  one  of  his 
looks,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  You  be  off 
back  ;  she  isn't  coming.'  'Tisn't  him 
that  would  think  of  it." 

"  How  does  she  seem  now?"  asked 
Jean,  a  tall  woman,  with  a  thin 
straight-down  figure,  and  old-fash- 
ioned, large,  white  cap. 

"  I  saw  no  change.  There  won't 
be  any  till  the  minute  comes." 

On  the  table  was  a  tray  of  cups  and 
saucers.  Margery  went  up  to  them 
and  drew  two  from  the  rest.  "  We 
may  as  well  have  a  drop  o'  tea  now," 
she  said,  taking  up  a  small  black  tea- 
pot that  was  standing  on  the  hob, — 
for  the  parlor-grate  was  an  old-fash- 
ioned  one.  "  Shall  I  cut  you  a  bit 
<>'  bread-and-butter,  Jean  !" 

"  No  thank  ye.     I  couldn't  eat  it." 

They  sat  on  either  side  the  table, 
the  teacups  between  them.  Margery 
put  the  teapot  back  on  the  hob.  Jean 
stirred  her  tea  noiselessty. 

"  I  have  known  those,  as  far  gone 


as    she,    rally   for   hours,"   Jean    re- 
marked, in  a  half-whisper. 

Margery  shook  her  head.  "  She 
won't  rally.  It'll  be  only  the  work- 
ing out  of  my  dream.  I  dreamt  last 
night " 

"  Don't  get  talking  of  dreams  now, 
Margery,"  interrupted  Jean,  with  a 
shiver.  "  I  never  like  to  bring  dreams 
up  when  the  dead  be  about." 

Margery  cast  a  resentful  glance  at 
her.  "Jean  woman,  if  you  have 
laughed  at  my  dreams  once,  you  have 
laughed  at  'em  a  hundred  times  when 
we  lived  together  at  Ashlydyat,  ridi- 
culing and  saying  you  never  could 
believe  in  such  things.  You  know 
you  have." 

"No  more  I  don't  believe  in  'em," 
said  Jean,  taking  little  sips  of  her  hot 
tea.  "  But  it's  not  a  pleasant  subject 
for  to-night." 

"  It's  as  pleasant  as  any  other," 
retorted  Margery.  "  One  can't  be 
havering  over  dancing  and  fiddling 
when  there's  a  poor  lady  that  one  has 
loved  dying  within  earshot.  A  good 
mistress  she  has  been  to  me  ! — and 
she'll  be  a  loss  to  more  than  one 
Mark  you  that  Jean." 

"  The  child  is  to  come  to  the  old 
home,  they  say,  to  be  brought  up  by 
my  lady." 

Margery  grunted.  "  She'll  do  her 
best,  no  doubt,  Miss  Cecil  will ;  but 
the  likeliest  woman  going  can't  re- 
place a  mother.  My  master,  /?e'll  find 
out  her  worth  and  her  loss  when  she 
is  gone." 

"  I  never  heard  that  he  didn't  know 
her  worth  before." 

"  Didn't  you  !"  retorted  Margery. 
"  He's  all  of  a-piece,  he  is.  To  think 
of  his  keeping  that  child  in  there 
now  !" 

"  Shall  we  have  you  at  Ashlydyat 
again,  Margery  ?" 

"  Now,  don't  you  bother  your  head 
about  me,  Jean  woman.  Is  it  a  time 
to  cast  one's  thoughts  about  and  lay 
out  plans  ?  Let  the  future  take  care 
of  the  future." 

Jean  remained  silent  after  this  re- 
bull-  and  attended  to  her  tea,  which 


THE      SHADOW      OF     ASHLYDYAT 


433 


she  could  not  get  of  a  sufficient  cool- 
ness to  drink  comfortably.  She  had 
been  an  inferior  servant  to  Margery 
at  Ashlydyat,  in  a  measure  under  her 
control ;  and  she  was  deferent  in  man- 
ner still.     Presently  she  began  again. 

"  It's  a  curious  complaint  that  your 
mistress  has  died  of,  Margery, — least- 
ways it  has  a  curious  name.  I  made 
bold  to  ask  Dr.  Beale  to-night  what  it 
was,  when  I  went  to  open  the  gate  for 
him,  and  he  called  it — what  was  it? — 
atrophy.  Atrophy:  that  was  it.  They 
could  not  at  all  class  the  disease  of 
which  Mrs.  George  Godolphin  had 
died,  he  said,  and  were  content  to  call 
it  atrophy  for  want  of  a  better  name. 
I  took  leave  to  say  that  I  didn't  un- 
derstand the  word,  and  he  explained 
that  it  meant  a  gradual  wasting 
away  of  the  system  without  apparent 
cause." 

Margery  did  not  reply  for  the  mo- 
ment. She  was  swelling  with  dis- 
pleasure. 

"I'd  not  speak  of  a  lady  as  dead, 
until  she  was  dead,  if  I  were  you, 
Jean  Nair  !" 

"But  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said 
Jean,  humbly.  "Margery,  what  is 
atrophy,  for  I  don't  understand  it  a 
bit  ?" 

"It's  rubbish,"  flashed  Margery — 
"  as  applied  to  my  poor,  dear  mistress. 
She  has  died  of  the  trouble — that  she 
couldn't  speak  of — that  has  eat  into 
her  heart  and  cankered  there — and 
broke  it  at  last.  Atrophy  !  but  them 
doctors  must  put  a  name  to  every 
thing.  Jean,  woman,  I  have  been 
with  her  all  through  it,  and  I  tell  you 
that  it's  the  trouble  that  has  killed 
her.  She  has  had  it  on  all  sides,  has 
felt  it  in  more  ways  than  the  world 
gives  her  credit  for.  She  never  opened 
her  lips  to  me  about  a  thiDg, — and 
perhaps  it  had  been  better  if  she  had  ; 
but  I  have  got  my  eyes  in  my  head, 
and  I  could  see  what  it  was  doing  for 
her.  As  I  lay  down  in  my  clothes  on 
this  here  sofa  last  night, — -for  it  wasn't 
up  to  my  bed  I  went,  with  her  so  ill, — 
I  couldn't  help  thinking  to  myself  that 
if  she  could  but  have  broke  the  ice 
and  talked  of  her  sorrows  they  might 
27 


have  worn  off  in  time.  It  is  the  bury- 
ing the  grief  within  people's  own 
breasts  that  kills  them." 

Jean  was  silent.  Margery  began 
turning  the  grounds  in  her  empty  tea- 
cup round  and  round,  staring  dreamily 
at  the  forms  they  assumed. 

"  Hark  !"  cried  Jean. 

A  sound  was  heard  in  the  next 
room.  Margery  started  from  her  chair 
and  softly  opened  the  door.  But  it 
was  only  her  master  who  had  gone 
round  the  bed  and  was  leaning  over 
Meta.    Margery  closed  the  door  again. 

George  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  child  would  be  best  in  bed. 
Meta  was  lying  perfectly  still,  looking 
earnestly  at  her  mamma's  face,  so 
soon,  so  soon  to  be  lost  to  her.  He 
drew  the  hiding  hair  from  her  brow 
as  he  spoke. 

"  You  will  be  very  tired,  Meta.  I 
think  you  must  go  to  bed." 

For  answer  Meta  broke  into  a  storm 
of  passionate  sobs.  It  was  as  if 
they  had  been  on  the  burst  before  and 
the  words  had  set  them  on.  She 
flung  up  her  little  plump  arms  and 
held  on  to  her  mother,  fearful  perhaps 
of  being  forced  away.  Maria  turned 
her  eyes  imploringly  on  her  husband. 
Her  speech  seemed  to  return  to  her. 

"  Don't  part  us,  George.  It  will  be 
such  a  little  while  !" 

He  went  back  to  his  seat.  He  took 
his  wife's  hand  in  his,  he  bent  his  re- 
pentant face  near  to  hers  :  it  went  to 
his  very  heart  that  she  should  sup- 
pose he  wished  to  part  them  ;  but 
some  such  idea  as  Margery's  had  oc- 
curred to  his  mind.  Meta's  sobs  sub- 
sided, but  they  had  roused  Maria  from 
her  passive  state  of  silence. 

"  Meta — darling," — came  forth  the 
isolated  words  in  the  difficulty  of  her 
labored  breath, — "  I  am  going  away, 
but  it  is  not  long  before  you  will  come 
to  me.  You  will  be  sure  to  come  to 
me,  for  God  has  promised?  I  seem  to 
have  had  the  promise  given  to  me,  to 
hold  it,  now,  and  I  shall  carry  it  away 
with  me.  I  am  going  to  heaven. 
When  the  blind  was  drawn  up  yester- 
day morning  and  I  saw  the  snow,  it 
made  me  shiver ;  but  I  said  there  will 


434 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASIILYDYAT. 


be  no  snow  in  heaven.  Meta,  there 
will  be  only  spring  there  ;  no  sultry 
brat  of  summer,  no  keen  winter's  cold. 
Oh,  my  child,  try  to  come  to  me,  try 
always!  1  shall  keep  a  place  for 
you." 

The  minutes  went  on, — the  spirit 
fleeting,    George   watching   with    his 
aching  heart.      Soon  she  spoke  again. 
"  Has  it  struck  twelve  ?" 
"  Ten  minutes  ago." 
"  Then    it   is  my  birthday.     I  am 
twenty-eight  to-day.     It  is  young  to 
die  1" 

Young  to  die  !  Yes,  it  was  young 
to  die  :  but  there  are  some  who  can 
count  time  by  sorrow,  not  by  years. 

"  Don't  grieve,  George.  It  will 
pass  so  very  soon,  and  you  will  come 
to  me.  Clad  in  our  white  robes,  we 
shall  rise  at  the  Last  Day  to  eternal 
Jife,  and  be  together  forever  and  for- 
ever." 

The  tears  were  dropping  from  his 
eyes.  The  grief  of  the  present,  the 
anguish  of  the  parting,  the  remorse 
for  the  irrevocable  past,  in  which  he 
might  have  cherished  her  more  ten- 
derly had  he  foreseen  this,  and  did 
not,  were  all  too  present  to  him.  He 
laid  his  face  on  hers  with  a  bitter  cry. 
"  Forgive  me  before  you  go  !  Oh, 
my  darling,  forgive  all  !" 

There  was  no  answering  response, 
nothing  but  the  feeble  pressure  of  her 
hand  as  it  held  him  there,  and  he 
started  up  to  look  at  her.  Ah,  no, — 
there  could  never  more  be  any  response 
from  those  fading  lips,  never  more, 
never  more. 

Was  the  hour  come  ?  George  Go- 
dolphin's  heart  beat  quicker,  and  he 
wildly  kissed  her  with  passionate 
kisses, — as  if  that  would  keep  within 
her  the  life  that  was  ebbing.  The 
loving  eyes  gazed  at  him  still, — it  was 
he  who  had  the  last  lingering  look,  not 
Meta. 

But  she  was  not  to  die  just  then, — 
life  was  longer  in  finally  departing. 
George,  greedily  watching  her  every 
breath,  praying  (who  knows  ?)  wild 
and  unavailing  prayers  to  heaven  that 
even  yet  a  miracle  might  be  wrought 
and  she  spared  to  him,  supported  her 


head  on  his  arm.     And  the  minutes 
went  on  and  on. 

Meta  was  very  still.  Her  sobs  had 
first  subsided  into  a  sudden  catching  of 
the  breath  now  and  then,  but  that  was 
no  longer  heard.  Maria  moved  un- 
easily, or  strove  to  move,  and  looked 
up  at  George  in  distress,  —  dying 
though  she  was,  almost  past  feeling, 
the  weight  of  the  child's  head  had 
grown  heavy  on  her  side.  He  under- 
stood and  went  round  to  move  Meta. 

She  had  fallen  asleep.  Weary  with 
the  hour,  the  excitement,  the  still- 
watching,  the  sobs,  sleep  had  stolen 
unconsciously  over  her, — her  wet  eye- 
lashes were  closed,  her  breathing  was 
regular,  her  hot  cheeks  were  crimson. 
"  Shall  I  take  her  to  Margery  ?"  he 
whispered. 

Maria  seemed  to  look  approval,  but 
her  eyes  followed  the  child  as  George 
raised  her  in  his  arms.  It  was  im- 
possible to  mistake  their  yearning 
wish. 

He  carried  the  child  round,  he 
gently  held  her  sleeping  face  to  that 
of  his  wife,  and  the  dying  mother 
pressed  her  last  feeble  kiss  upon  the 
unanswering  and  unconscious  lips. 
Then  he  took  her  and  irave  her  to 
Margery. 

The  tears  were  in  Maria's  eyes 
when  he  returned  to  her,  and  he  bent 
his  face  to  catch  the  words  that  were 
evidently  striving  to  be  spoken. 
"  Love  her  always,  George." 
"  Oh,  Maria,  there  is  no  need  to  tell 
it  me." 

The  answer  seemed  to  have  burst 
from  him  in  anguish.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  those  few  last  hours  had 
been  of  the  bitterest  anguish  to  George 
Godolphin :  he  had  never  gone 
through  such  before  ;  he  never  would 
go  through  such  again.  It  is  well, — 
it  is  well  that  these  moments  can 
come  but  once  in  a  lifetime. 

He  hung  over  her,  suppressing  his 
emotion  as  he  best  could  for  her  sake  ; 
he  wiped  the  death-dews  from  her 
brow,  fast  gathering  there.  Her  eyes 
never  moved  from  him,  her  fingers  to 
the  last  sought  to  entwine  themselves 
with    his.     But  soon  the  loving  ex- 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHL1DYAT, 


435 


pression  of  those  eyes  faded  into  un- 
consciousness :  they  were  open  still, 
looking  as  may  be  said  afar  off:  the 
recognition  of  him,  her  husband,  the 
recollection  of  earthly  things  had 
passed  away. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  movement  of 
the  lips,  a  renewal  in  a  faint  degree 
of  strength  and  energy ;  and  George 
strove  to  catch  the  words.  Her  voice 
was  dreamy;  her  eyes  looked  dream- 
ily at  him  whom  she  would  never 
more  recognize  until  they  should  both 
have  put  on  immortality. 

"And  the  city  has  no  need  of  the 
sun,  neither  of  the  moon,  to  shine  in 
it ;  for  the  glory  of  God  lightens  it, 
and  the  Lamb  is  the  light " 

Even  as  she  was  speaking  the  last 
words  her  voice  dropped,  and  was 
still.  There  was  no  sigh,  there  was 
no  struggle  ;  had  Meta  been  looking 
on,  the  child's  pulses  would  not  have 
been  stirred.  Very,  very  gently  had 
the  spirit  taken  its  flight. 

George  Godolphin  let  his  head  fall 
on  the  pillow  beside  her.  In  his  over- 
whelming grief  for  her  ?  or  in  repent- 
ant prayer  for  himself?  He  alone 
knew.     Let  us  leave  it  with  him  ! 


CHAPTER   LXXIII. 

OVER   THE   DEAD. 

Once  more,  once  more.  I  cannot 
help  it  if  you  blame  me  for  these 
things.  The  death-bell  of  All  Souls' 
boomed  out  over  Prior's  Ash.  People 
were  rising  in  the  morning  when  it 
struck  upon  their  ear,  and  they  held 
their  breath  to  listen  :  three  times  two, 
and  then  the  quick  sharp  strokes  rung 
for  the  recently  departed.  Then  it 
was  for  her  who  was  known  the  pre- 
vious night  to  be  on  the  point  of 
death  !  and  they  went  out  of  their 
houses  in  the  bleak  winter's  morning, 
and  said  to  each  other,  as  they  took 
down  their  shutters,  that  poor  Mrs. 
George  Godolphin  had  really  gone  at 
last. 


Poor  Mrs.  George  Godolphin  I  Ay, 
they  could  speak  of  her  considerately, 
kindly,  regretfully  now,  but  did  they 
remember  how  they  had  once  spoken 
of  her  ?  She  had  gone  to  the  grave 
with  her  pain  and  sorrow,  she  had 
gone  with*  the  remembrance  of  their 
severe  judgment,  their  harsh  words, 
which  had  eaten  into  her  too  sensitive 
heart :  she  had  gone  away  from  them, 
to  be  judged  by  One  who  would  be 
more  merciful  than  they  had  been. 

Oh,  if  we  could  but  be  less  harsh  in 
judging  our  fellow-pilgrims  !  I  have 
told  you  no  idle  tale,  no  false  story 
conjured  up  by  the  plausible  imagina- 
tion. Prior's  Ash  lamented  her  in  a 
startled  sort  of  manner :  their  con- 
sciences pricked  them  sorely ;  and 
they  would  have  given  something  to 
recall  her  back  to  life, — now  it  was 
too  late. 

They  stared  at  each  other,  shutters 
in  hand,  stunned  as  it  were,  with  blank 
faces  and  repentant  hearts.  Somehow 
they  had  never  believed  she  would 
really  die  ;  even  the  day  before,  when 
it  had  been  talked  of  as  all  too  prob- 
able, they  had  not  fully  believed  it : 
she  was  young  and  beautiful,  and  it  is 
not  common  for  such  to  go.  They 
recalled  her  in  the  several  stages  of 
her  life  :  their  rector's  daughter,  the 
pretty  child  who  had  been  born  and 
reared  among  them,  the  graceful  girl 
who  had  given  her  love  to  George 
Godolphin,  the  most  attractive  man  in 
Prior's  Ash  ;  the  faithful,  modest  wife 
against  whose  fair  fame  never  a  breath 
of  scandal  had  dared  to  come  ;  the 
loving  mother,  the  gentle  friend,  the 
kind  mistress,  the  considerate  woman, 
— Prior's  Ash  looked  out  around,  and 
in  its  present  mood  found  none  so 
admirable  in  all  the  relations  of  life  as 
she  appeared  to  have  been  for  whom 
that  bell  was  tolling. 

And  how  had  they  requited  her  ? 
When  misfortune,  such  as  does  not 
often  fall  upon  a  gentlewoman,  over- 
took her,  bursting  upon  her  uncon- 
scious head  as  a  hasty-gathered  thun- 
der-storm in  sultry  summer,  they  had 
reproached  her ;  had  cast  towards  her 
their  bitter  sneers,  had  not  sought  to 


436 


THE       SHADOW       OF       ASHLYDYAT. 


conceal  their  unjust  reproaches  :  many 
a  one  who  had  not  lost  by  the  bank, 
who  had  never  had  a  shilling  in  it, 
had  sent  forth  cruel  stabs  more  freely 
than  the  rest.  Did  they  think  in  their 
heart  of  hearts  that  she  deserved 
such  ? — did  they  think  such  poisoned 
arrows  could  fall  harmlessly  on  a  re- 
fined, sensitive  woman,  such  as  she 
was  ? 

It  was  all  over  now  ;  she  and  her 
broken  heart,  her  wrongs  and  her  sor- 
rows, had  been  taken  from  their 
tender  mercies,  to  a  land  where  neither 
wrongs  nor  sorrows  can  penetrate, 
where  the  hearts,  broken  here  by  un- 
kindness,  are  made  whole.  It  was  a 
better  change  for  her  ;  but  Prior's  Ash 
felt  it  remorsefully.  They  felt  it  in  a 
resentful  sort  of  manner  when  the  first 
shock  was  over ;  as  if  a  wrong  had 
been  done  to  them  in  her  going  away 
so  soon,  in  her  not  stopping  longer, 
that  they  in  their  own  fashion  might 
have  atoned  for  their  share  of  the 
past,  had  it  been  but  by  a  single  word. 
This  sort  of  atoning, — or  rather  the 
wish  to  render  it, — generally  comes 
too  late. 

When  Meta  woke  in  the  morning  it 
was  considerably  beyond  her  usual 
hour,  the  result  probably  of  her  late 
vigil.  Jean  was  in  the  room, — not 
Margery.  A  moment's  surprised  stare, 
and  then  recollection  flashed  over  her. 
She  darted  out  of  bed,  her  flushed 
cheeks  and  her  bright  eyes  raised  to 
Jean. 

"  I  want  mamma." 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Jean,  evasively. 
"  I'll  dress  you,  and  then  you  shall  go 
down." 

"  Where's  Margery  ?" 

"She  has  just  stepped  out  on  an 
errand." 

Meta  paused  a  moment,  looking 
very  hard  at  Jean.  For  all  her  ran- 
dom ways,  her  high  spirits,  she  in- 
herited very  greatly  the  thoughtful 
mind,  the  reflective  temperament  of 
her  mother ;  she  had  inherited  that 
sensitive  reticence  of  feeling  which  had 
so  remarkably  distinguished  George 
Godolphin's  wife.  Where  Meta's  feel- 
ings were  engaged  she  was  silent,  shy 


timid  as  a  hare.  She  possessed  of 
course  no  definite  idea  of  death.  She 
had  seen  her  baby  brother  in  his  coffin, 
but  the  sight  did  not  impai't  any  de- 
fined notions  to  her.  Had  one  ques- 
tioned Meta  of  that  scene,  she  would 
have  remembered  the  flowers  strewn 
on  the  little  white  shroud,  more  clear- 
ly than  any  thing  else  :  and  when  she 
had  gathered,  as  she  had  on  the  pre- 
vious day,  that  death  was  also  coming 
to  her  mamma,  a  vague  sense  of  dis- 
comfort, of  a  desire  to  hold  her  mam- 
ma tightly  and  not  let  her  go,  was  the 
most  that  her  mind  had  grasped.  But 
the  sense  of  discomfort,  of  something 
wrong,  returned  to  her  mind  when  she 
awoke,  the  vague  fear  touching  her 
mother  rushed  over  it  with  redoubled 
violence,  and  she  drew  away  from  the 
hand  of  Jean,  who  was  about  to  take 
hold  of  her. 

"  Is  mamma  in  her  room  ?  Is  she 
in  her  bed  ?" 

"  We'll  go  and  see  presently,  dear," 
repeated  Jean,  with  the  same  eva- 
sion. 

The  worst  way  that  any  one  c?,u 
take  is  to  attempt  to  deceive  a 
thoughtful,  sensitive  child,  whose  fears 
may  be  already  awakened  :  it  is  cer- 
tain to  defeat  its  own  ends.  Meta 
knew  as  well  as  Jean  did  that  she  was 
being  purposely  deceived,  that  there 
was  something  to  tell  which  was  not 
being  told.  A  dread  came  over  Meta 
that  her  mamma  was  in  some  manner 
gone  out  of  the  house,  that  she  should 
never  see  her  again  :  she  backed  from 
Jean's  hand,  dashed  the  door  open, 
and  flew  down  the  stairs.  Jean  flew 
after  her  crying  and  calling. 

The  noise  surprised  George  Goclol- 
phin.  He  was  in  the  parlor  at  the 
breakfast-table,  sitting  at  the  meal 
but  not  touching  it.  The  consterna- 
tion of  Prior's  Ash  was  great,  but 
that  was  as  nothing  in  comparison 
with  his.  George  Godolphin  was  as 
a  man  bewildered.  He  could  not 
realize  the  fact.  Butfour-and-twenty 
hours  since  he  had  received  intima- 
tion of  the  danger,  and  now  she  was 
— there.  He  could  not  realize  it. 
Though  all  yesterday  afternoon,  since 


T  IT  B      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDY  A  T. 


437 


his  arrival,  be  had  known  there  was 
no  hope, — though  he  had  seen  her 
die, — though  he  had  passed  the  hours 
since,  lamenting  her  as  much  as  he 
could  do  in  his  first  stunned  state,  yet 
he  could  not  realize  it.  He  was  not 
casting  much  blame  to  himself:  he 
was  thinking  how  circumstances  bad 
worked  against  him  and  against  Maria. 
His  mind  was  yet  in  a  chaos,  and  it 
was  from  this  confused  state  that  the 
noise  outside  disturbed  him.  Open- 
ing the  door,  the  sight  came  full  upon 
his  view.  The  child  flying  down  in 
her  white  night-dress,  her  naked  feet 
scarcely  touching  the  stairs,  her  eyes 
wild,  her  hot  cbeeks  flaming,  her 
golden  hair  entangled  as  she  had 
slept. 

"  I  want  mamma,"  she  cried,  liter- 
ally springing  into  his  arms  as  if  for 
refuge.     "  Papa,  I  want  mamma." 

She  burst  into  a  storm  of  sobs  dis- 
tressing to  hear  ;  she  clung  to  him 
with  her  little  arms,  her  whole  frame 
trembling.  George,  half-unmanned, 
sat  down  before  the  fire,  and  pressed 
her  to  him  in  his  strong  arms. 

"Bring  a  shawl,"  he  said  to  Jean. 

A  warm  gray  shawl  of  chenille 
which  Maria  had  often  lately  worn 
upon  her  shoulders  was  found  by 
Jean,  and  George  wrapped  it  round 
Meta  as  she  lay  in  bis  arms,  and  he 
kept  her  there.  Had  Margery  been 
present  she  would  probably  have 
taken  the  young  lady  away  by  force 
and  dressed  her  with  a  reprimand ; 
but  there  was  only  Jean  :  and  George 
had  it  all  his  own  way. 

He  tried  to  comfort  the  grieved 
spirit, — the  little  sobbing  bosom  that 
beat  against  his;  but  his  efforts 
seemed  useless,  and  the  child's  cry 
never  ceased. 

"  I  want  mamma ;  I  want  to  see 
mamma." 

"  Hush,  Meta!  Mamma," — George 
had  to  pause,  himself, — "  mamma's 
gone.      She " 

The  words  confirmed  all  her  fears, 
and  she  strove  to  get  off  his  lap  in  her 
excitement,  interrupting  his  words. 
"  Let  me  go  and  see  her,  papa  !  Is 
she  in  the  grave  with  Uncle  Thomas  1 


Oh,  let  me  go  and  see  it  I  Grand- 
papa will  show  it  to  me." 

How  long  it  took  to  soothe  her, 
even  to  comparative  calmness,  George 
scarcely  knew.  He  learned  more  of 
Mcta's  true  nature  in  that  one  inter- 
view than  he  had  learned  in  all  her 
life  before  :  and  he  saw  that  lie  must, 
in  that  solemn  hour,  speak  to  lier  as 
he  would  to  a  girl  of  double  her  yearg. 

"Mamma's  gone  to  heaven,  child; 
she  is  gone  to  be  an  angel  with  the 
great  God.  She  would  have  stayed 
with  us  if  she  could,  Meta,  but  death 
came  and  took  her.  She  kissed  you, 
— she  kissed  you,  Meta,  with  her  last 
breath.  You  were  fast  asleep  :  you 
fell  asleep  by  her  side,  and  I  held  you 
to  mamma  for  her  last  kiss,  and  soon 
after  that  she  died." 

Meta  had  kept  still,  listening :  but 
now  the  sobs  broke  out  again. 

"  Why  didn't  they  wake  me  and  let 
me  see  her ;  why  did  they  take  her 
away  first  ?  Oh,  papa,  though  she  is 
dead,  I  want  to  see  her;  I  want  to 
see  mamma." 

He  felt  inclined  to  take  her  into  the 
room.  Maria  was  looking  very  much 
like  herself;  far  more  so  than  she  had 
looked  in  the  last  days  of  life  :  there 
was  nothing  ghastly,  nothing  repul- 
sive, as  is  too  often  the  case  with  the 
dead  ;  the  sweet  face  of  life  looked 
scarcely  less  sweet  now. 

"  Mamma  that  was  is  there  still, 
Meta,"  he  said,  indicating  the  next 
room.  "  The  spirit  is  gone  to  heaven  ; 
you  know  that  :  the  body,  that  which 
you  used  to  call  mamma,  will  be  here 
yet  a  little  while,  and  then  it  will  be 
laid  by  Uncle  Thomas,  to  wait  for  the 
resurrection  of  the  Last  Day.  Meta, 
if  I  should  live  to  come  home  from 
India ;  that  is  if  I  am  in  my  native 
land  when  my  time  comes  to  die,  they 
will  lay  me  beside  her " 

He  stopped  abruptly.  Meta  had 
lifted  her  head  and  was  looking  at  him 
with  a  wild  questioning  expression  ; 
as  if  she  could  not  at  first  under- 
stand or  believe  his  words.  "  Mamma 
in  there  !" 

"  Yes.  But  she  is  dead  now,  Meta ; 
she  is  not  livin<r." 


438 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


"  Oh,  take  me  to  her  !  Papa,  take 
me  to  her." 

"  Listen,  Meta.  Mamma  is  changed  ; 
she  looks  cold  and  white,  and  her 
eyes  are  shut,  and  she  does  not  stir. 
I  would  take  you  in  :  but  I  fear, — I 
don't  know  whether  you  would  like  to 
look  at  her." 

But  there  might  be  no  denial,  now 
that  the  hope  had  been  given  ;  the 
child  would  have  broken  her  heart 
over  it.  George  Godolphin  rose ;  he 
pressed  the  little  head  upon  his  shoul- 
der, and  carried  her  to  the  door,  the 
shawl  well  wound  round  her  body, 
her  warm  feet  hanging  down.  Once 
in  the  room,  he  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  golden  curls,  to  ensure  that  the 
face  was  not  raised  until  he  saw  fit 
that  it  should  be,  and  bore  her  straight 
to  the  head  of  the  bed.  Then,  hold- 
ing her  in  his  arms  very  tightly  that 
she  might  feel  sensibly  his  protection, 
he  suffered  her  to  look  full  in  the 
white  face  lying  there. 

One  glance,  and  Meta  turned  and 
buried  her  head  upon  him  ;  he  could 
feel  her  trembling ;  and  he  began  to 
question  his  own  wisdom  in  bringing 
her  in.  Another  minute,  and  she 
looked  back  and  took  a  long  gaze. 

"  That's  not  mamma,"  she  said, 
bursting  into  tears. 

George  sat  down  on  a  chair  close  by, 
and  laid  her  wet  cheek  against  his, 
and  hid  his  eyes  amidst  her  curls.  His 
emotion  had  spent  itself  in  the  long 
night,  and  he  thought  he  could  con- 
trol it  now. 

"  That  is  mamma,  Meta  ;  your  mo- 
ther and  my  dear  wife.  It  is  all  that 
is  left  of  her.  Oh,  Meta  !  if  we  had 
but  known  earlier  that  she  was  goine; 
to  die  1" 

"  It  does  not  look  like  mamma." 

"  The  moment  death  comes,  the 
change  begins.  It  has  begun  in 
mamma.  Do  you  understand  me, 
Meta  ?     In  a  few  days  I  shall  hear 

read  over  her  by  your  grandpapa " 

George  stopped  :  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  him  that  the  Reverend  Mr.  Hast- 
ings would  not  officiate  this  time;  and 
he  amended  his  sentence.  "  I  shall 
hear  read  over  her  the  words  she  has, 


I  know,  often  read  to  you ;  how  the 
eoiTuptible  body  must  die,  and  be 
buried  in  the  earth  as  a  grain  of  wheat 
is,  ere  it  can  be  changed  and  put  on 
immortality." 

"Will  she  never  come  again?" 
sobbed  Meta. 

"  Never  here,  never  again.  Wre 
shall  go  to  her." 

Meta  sobbed  on.  "  I  want  mam- 
ma !  I  want  mamma  that  talked  to 
me  and  nursed  me.  Mamma  loved 
us." 

"Yes,  she  loved  us,"  he  said,  his 
heart  wrung  with  the  recollection  of  the 
past:  "  we  shall  never  find  anyone 
else  to  love  us  as  she  loved.  Meta, 
child,  listen  !  Mamma  lives  still ;  she 
is  looking  dowm  from  heaven  now  and 
sees  and  hears  us  ;  she  loves  us,  and 
will  love  us  forever.  And  when  our 
turn  shall  come  to  die,  I  hope — I  hope — 
Ave  shall  have  learnt  all  that  she  has 
learnt,  so  that  God  may  take  us  to  her." 

It  was  of  no  use  prolonging  the 
scene :  George  still  questioned  his 
judgment  in  allowing  Meta  to  enter 
upon  it.  But  as  he  rose  to  carry  her 
away,  the  child  turned  her  head  with 
a  sharp  eager  motion  to  take  a  last 
look.  A  last  look  of  the  still  form, 
the  dead  face  of  her  who  but  yester- 
day only  had  been  as  they  were. 

Margery  had  that  instant  come  in 
and  was  standing  in  her  bonnet  in  the 
sitting-room.  To  describe  her  face 
of  surprised  consternation  when  she 
saw  Meta  carried  out  of  the  chamber 
would  take  time  and  trouble.  "You 
can  dress  her,  Margery,"  he  said,  giv- 
ing the  child  into  her  arms. 

But  for  his  subdued  tones,  the  evi- 
dent emotion  which  lay  upon  him  all 
too  palpably  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to 
suppress  it,  Margery  might  have 
given  her  private  opinion  of  the  exist- 
ing state  of  things.  As  it  was,  she 
confined  her  anger  to  dumb  show. 
Jerking  Meta  to  her,  with  a  half  fond, 
half  fierce  gesture,  she  lifted  her  hand 
in  dismay  at  sight  of  the  naked  feet, 
and  turned  her  own  gown  up  to  fling 
over  them. 

Scarcely  wras  George  left  alone  when 
he  was  again  to  be  disturbed.     Some 


T  H  E      SHADOW      OF      AS  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T 


439 


visitor  had  softly  entered  the  house, 
and  was  being  shown  in  by  Jean.  A 
faint  flush  came  over  his  haggard  face 
— haggard  then  with  its  want  of  sleep 
and  its  weight  of  sorrow — as  he  saw 
Mrs.  Hastings.  Emotion  was  shak- 
ing her  also,  and  she  burst  into  tears 
as  George  placed  her  in  a  chair. 

"I  could  not  get  here  in  time, — I 
could  no i  get  here.  Oh,  Mr.  George, 
what  could  have  taken  her  away  so 
suddenly  ?  I  had  no  suspicion  she 
was  so  very  ill." 

"  It  has  come  more  suddenly  upon 
me  than  upon  anyone,"  he  answered. 
"I  had  no  suspicion  of  it," 

"But what  has  she  died  of?  What 
complaint  had  she  ?  I  knew  of  noth- 
ing but  weakness." 

George  Godolphin  gave  no  satis- 
factory answer.  He  leaned  his  arm 
on  the  elbow  of  his  old-fashioned 
chair,  and  his  cheek  upon  his  hand. 
"I  would  have  given  my  own  life  to 
save  hers,"  was  all  he  said. 

They  sat  on  in  silence,  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings bringing  her  sobs  under  control. 
"How is  Mr.  Hastings?"  he  presently 
asked.  "  He  was  ill  when  he  left 
here  last  night." 

"He  is  in  bed  this  morning.  He  is 
really  ill,  worse  than  I  have  known 
him  for  years,  and  he  feels  the  loss  of 
Maria,  Grace  feels  it  also  dreadfully, 
they  tell  me.  It  takes  a  great  deal  to 
arouse  the  feelings  of  Grace,  but  when 
once  aroused  they  are  apt  to  be  vio- 
lent. You  see — you  see — it  has  come 
upon  us  all  so  unexpectedly." 

George  turned  to  the  neglected 
breakfast-table.  "Will  you  take  some?" 
he  asked.  "I  fear  it  is  cold."  He 
might  well  say  it:  his  own  cup  of  tea, 
poured  out  but  never  yet  tasted,  was 
going  on  for  ice.  Mrs.  Hastings  shook 
her  head  and  then  sat  on  again,  neither 
feeling  at  ease  in  the  interview.  It 
was  the  first  time  George  had  been 
brought  face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Hast- 
ings since  the  summer  and  its  heart- 
burnings. 

It  was  well,  perhaps,  that  Meta 
came  in  to  break  the  awkwardness. 
Dressed  now,  in  her  black  frock  and 
white  pinafore,  her  pretty  curls  combed 


smoothly  out,  her  eyes  swollen  with 
weeping,  her  breath  catching  itself  up. 
Mrs  Hastings  drew  her  to  her  knee 
and  kissed  her. 

"  Mamma's  dead,"  said  Meta,  break- 
ing into  hysterical  sobs. 

"  Yes,  child  ;  yes." 

"  Margery  won't  Jet  me  say  any 
longer,  'Pray  God  bless  mamma  and 
make  her  well  again.'  Why  can't  1 
say  it  ?" 

The  streaming  eyes  were  raised  to 
Mrs.  Hastings,  the  little  voice  was 
choking  with  its  emotion.  Mrs.  Hast- 
ing seemed  choking  also. 

"  Mamma  is  well  now,  Meta.  She 
is  gone  to  be  better  off.   She — she " 

"Margery  says  she's  gone  to  heaven 
to  be  with  Uncle  Thomas,"  resumed 
Meta,  breaking  the  distressed  pause. 

"  So  she  is." 

"Do  you  think  she  has  thanked 
Uncle  Thomas  for  the  Bible  yet  ? — 
and  told  him  that  I  will  always  read  it  ? 
I  will  always  read  it  because  mamma 
bade  me." 

George  drew  her  towards  him  ;  the 
scene  was  getting  painful  for  Mrs. 
Hastings.  "  Meta  must  have  some 
breakfast,"  he  whispered,  placing  her 
at  the  table. 

But  Meta  evidently  wanted  no 
breakfast  that  day.  Later,  when  Mrs. 
Hastings  came  out  of  the  next  room, 
where  she  went,  she  offered  to  take 
her  home  with  her  to  the  rectory.  "  I 
think  it  will  be  better  that  she  should 
not  remain  in  the- house,"  she  said,  in 
an  uudertone  to  George.  "  She  will 
forget  her  grief,  playing  with  Fanny 
and  Katie  Chisholm." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  replied  George, 
and  a  sharp  remembrance  darted 
through  him  of  the  cause  which  had 
located  the  little  Chisholms  at  the  rec- 
tory, "  but  I  expect  her  to  be  sent  for 
almost  momentarily  to  Ashlydyat. 
She  is  to  be  there  from  to-day.  I 
could  not  well  take  her  out  to  India 
with  me." 

"I  heard  it  was  so  arranged;  and 
she  will  have  advantages  at  Ashly- 
dyat which  I  could  not  offer :  but  had 
you  been  at  a  fault  for  a  home,  I  would 
have  taken  her,  in  spite  of "     In 


440 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLTDYAT. 


spite  of  the  past,  Mrs.  Hastings  was 
about  thoughtlessly  to  say,  but  she 
stopped  in  time,  and  a  flush  rose  to 
her  cheek.  "  Yes,  we  would  have 
taken  her  and  done  the  best  we  could  : 
■■she  is  Maria's  child." 

He  could  only  repeat  a  word  of 
acknowledgment,  and  Mrs.  Hastings 
went  out.  Margery  hastened  after 
her  to  the  gate. 

"  Did  she  die  quietly,  Margery  ?" 
Mrs.  Hastings  asked,  the  gate  in  her 
hand.  "Your  master  is  sadly  cut  up, 
]  can  see  that,  with  all  his  apparent 
calmness,  and  I  do  not  like  to  ask  him 
particulars." 

"  She  died  like  a  lamb,  without  so 
much  as  a  sigh,"  answered  Margery. 
"Master  told  me  so;  there  was  no- 
body with  her  but  him.  As  to  his  be- 
ing cut  up,"  she  added,  in  a  different 
and  slighting  tone,  "it's  only  nateral 
he  should  be." 

"  What  could  have  killed  her  ?  Only 
this  time  yesterday  I  was  thinking 
of  her  as  busy  in  her  preparations  for 
India." 

"  She  have  been  going  right  straight 
on  for  death  ever  since  that  blow  in 
the  summer,"  was  Margery's  answer. 
"Looking  back,  ma'am,  and  reflecting 
on  it,  I  seem  to  see  it  all,  and  I  won- 
der I  never  saw  it  then.  There  were 
troubles  of  more  sorts  than  one  that 
came  upon  her  together,  and  I  sup- 
pose she  couldn't  battle  with  them." 

Mrs.  Hastings  sighed  deeply  as  she 
walked  away,  thinking  how  full  of 
care  the  world  was,  how  unequally 
lots  in  it  seemed  to  be  dealt  out.  At 
the  turning  of  the  road  she  met  the 
dose  carriage  of  Lady  Averil,  with  all 
its  badges  of  rank :  its  coronet,  its 
servants,  its  fine  horses  and  their 
showy  harness.  Cecil  leaned  forward 
and  bowed,  and  Mrs.  Hastings  rightly 
conjectured  that  she  was  going  her- 
self to  bring  away  Meta.  "Yes, 
Jots  are  differently  dealt  out  in  life," 
she  murmured  :  "  it  is  well  that 
Meta  should  be  brought  up  at  Ash- 
Jydyat." 

It  was  a  somewhat  busy  week  for 


George  Godolphin,  in  spite  of  his  sor- 
row. Many  arrangements  had  to  be 
made  :  for  giving  up  the  apartments  ; 
for  disposing  of  personal  effects. 
George's  would  go  with  him  ;  Meta's 
to  Ashlydyat ;  Maria's — what  of  Ma- 
ria's ?  George  begged  Mrs.  Hastings 
to  see  to  them.  Perhaps  no  bitterer 
grief  had  wrung  his  heart  than  in  the 
moment  when  he  examined  the  little 
cheap  trunk,  so  despised  by  Charlotte 
Pain  when  consigned  to  that  lady's 
care  for  safety  the  previous  summer. 
How  good,  how  pure  were  her  secrets  ! 
how  great  the  proof  of  love  and  loyalty 
to  him  !  The  bit  of  hair  of  their  lost 
children,  the  two  or  three  love-letters 
he  had  written  to  her ;  the  memoran- 
dum made  on  the  day  of  their  engage- 
ment :  "  I  was  this  day  engaged  to 
George  Godolphin.  I  pray  God  to 
render  me  worthy  of  him  !  to  be  to 
him  a  loving  and  dutiful  wife." 

She  had  been  all  that ;  more  than 
all  !  Had  she  been  less  loving,  it 
might  perhaps  have  been  better  for 
her.  George  Godolphin  had  probably 
not  been  the  sort  of  faithful  husband 
that  may  be  set  up  under  a  glass-case 
as  a  model  pattern  to  delinquent  men 
in  general,  but  he  was  not  dead 
yet  to  the  sense  of  right  and  wrong, 
or  to  the  impulses  of  natural  affection. 
He  did  not  much  care  for  the  pretty 
little  curls,  or  for  his  own  love-letters 
to  Maria ;  but  he  put  that  memoran- 
dum paper  into  his  pocket-book, 
together  with  a  lock  of  hair  that  had 
been  cut  off  after  death. 

Margery's  decision  would  have  to 
be  made  promptly  :  whether  she 
should  accept  Miss  Janet's  offer  of  re- 
tiring to  Scotland  and  quiet,  or  go  to 
Ashlydyat  to  have  her  life  teased  out 
by  Miss  Meta.  Lord  Averil  threw  an 
inducement  into  the  scale :  "  When 
children  come  to  Ashlydyat,  Margery. 
you  shall  have  the  ruling  of  them,  as 
you  had  of  the  children  at  Ashlydyat 
in  the  years  gone  by."  Margery 
answered  that  she  must  "turn  things 
about  in  her  mind."  And  so  the  days 
wore  on. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


441 


CHAPTER    LXXIV. 

A  SAB    PARTING. 

Again  another  funeral  in  All  Souls' 
Church,  another  opening  of  the  vault 
of  the  Godolpbins  !  But  it  was  not 
All  Souls'  rector  to  officiate  this  time; 
he  stood  at  the  grave  with  George. 
Isaac  Hastings  had  come  down  from 
London,  Harry  had  come  from  his 
tutorship  in  the  school ;  Lord  Averil 
was  again  there,  and  Mr.  Crosse  had 
asked  to  attend. 

Prior's  Ash  had  looked  out  on  the 
funeral,  as  it  had  on  that  of  Thomas 
Godolphin, — at  the  black  hearse  with 
its  sable  plumes.  Some  inquisitive 
ones  had  solaced  their  curiosity  by 
taking  a  private  view  previously  of 
the  coffin  at  the  undertaker's,  had 
counted  its  nails  and  studied  its  plate. 
Prior's  Ash  did  not  make  this  day 
into  a  sort  of  solemn  holiday  as  it  had 
the  other  one  ;  no  private  houses  had 
their  blinds  drawn,  no  shops  were 
closed  :  but  people  did  look  out  sor- 
rowfully and  pityingly  as  the  simple 
funeral  went  slowly  past.  They  fol- 
lowed it  with  their  regretful  eyes,  they 
said  one  to  another  what  a  sad  thing 
it  was  for  her,  only  twenty-eight,  to 
die.  They  forgot  that  the  sadness 
was  left  for  this  world  ;  that  she  had 
escaped  from  it  and  was  free,  as  a 
chrysalis  casts  its  shell. 

Ay,  she  had  left  it  behind  her,  all 
the  sorrow  and  sadness  1  she  had  en- 
tered into  her  rest. 

George  Godolphin  stood  over  the 
grave  and  contrived  to  maintain  an 
outward  calmness,  even  as  his  brother 
Thomas  had  contrived  to  maintain  it 
when  he  had  stood  in  the  same  church- 
yard over  the  burial  of  Ethel.  The 
two  events  were  not  quite  analogous 
perhaps,  and  Thomas,  at  any  rate, 
had  nothing  of  remorse  on  his  con- 
science. He,  George,  stood  motion- 
less, betraying  no  sign  of  emotion 
save  that  of  intense,  preternatural  still- 
ness :  but  the  eyes  of  Prior's  Ash  in 
the  shape  of  its  many  idlers  were  on 
him,  bracing  his  nerves,  steeling  his 
heart.       There    suddenlv    arose    one 


burst  of  sobs  to  delight  the  gaping 
spectators,  but  they  did  not  come  from 
him.    They  came  from  Harry  Hastings. 

It  drew  to  an  end  at  last.  The  men 
began  to  shovel  the  earth  on  to  the 
coffin  as  they  had  shovelled  it  so  short 
a  while  before  on  Thomas  Godolphin's, 
and  George  turned  away.  Not  yet  to 
the  mourning-coach  that  waited  for 
him,  but  through  the  little  gate  lead- 
ing to  the  rectory.  He  was  about  to 
leave  Prior's  Ash  for  good  that  night, 
and  common  courtesy  demanded  that 
he  should  say  a  word  of  farewell  to 
Mrs.  Hastings. 

In  the  darkened  drawing-room  with 
Grace  and  Rose  in  their  new  black  at- 
tire sat  Mrs.  Hastings.  George  Godol- 
phin half  started  back  as  they  rose  to 
greet  him.  He  did  not  stay  to  sit ;  he 
stood  by  the  fire-place,  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  its  flowing  crape  nearly  touching 
the  ground. 

"I  will  say  good-by  to  you  now, 
Mrs.  Hastings." 

"  You  really  leave  to-night  ?" 

"  By  the  seven-o'clock  train.  Will 
you  permit  me  to  express  my  hope 
that  a  brighter  time  may  yet  dawn  for 
you, — to  assure  you  that  no  effort  on 
my  part  shall  be  spared  to  conduce  to 
it." 

He  spoke  in  a  low,  quiet,  meaning 
tone,  and  he  held  her  hand  between 
his.  Mrs.  Hastings  could  not  misun- 
derstand him,  that  he  was  hinting  at 
a  hope  of  reimbursing  somewhat  of 
their  pecuniary  loss. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  good  wishes," 
she  said,  keeping  down  the  tears.  "You 
will  allow  me, — you  will  speak  to  Lady 
Averil  to  allow  me  to  have  the  child 
here  for  a  day  sometimes  ?" 

"  Need  you  ask  it  ?"  he  answered,  a 
generous  warmth  in  his  tone.  "  Cecil, 
I  am  quite  sure,  recognizes  your  right 
in  the  child  at  least  in  an  equal  degree 
with  her  own,  and  is  glad  to  recognize 
it.  Fare  you  well ;  fare  you  well,  dear 
Mrs.  Hastings." 

He  went  out,  shaking  hands  with 
Grace  and  Rose  as  he  passed,  thinking 
how  much  he  had  always  liked  Mrs. 
Hastings,  with  her  courteous  manners 
and  gentle  voice,  so  like  those  of  his 


U2 


THE      SHADOW      OP      ASHLYDYAT, 


lost  wife.  The  rector  met  him  in  the 
passage,  and  George  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  shall  not  see  you  again,  sir.  I 
leave  to-night." 

The  rector  took  the  hand.  "I  wish 
you  a  safe  vo}rage,"  he  said.  "  I  hope 
things  will  be  more  prosperous  with 
vou  in  India  than  they  have  been  lat- 
terly here." 

"  We  have  all  need  to  wish  that," 
was  George's  answer.  "  Mr  Hastings, 
promises  from  me  might  be  regarded 
as  valueless  ;  but  this  much  I  wish  to 
say  ere  we  part, — that  I  carry  the 
weight  of  my  debt  to  you  about  me, 
and  I  will  lessen  it  should  it  be  in  my 
power.  You  will" — dropping  his  voice 
— "you  will  see  that  the  inscription  is 
properly  placed  on  the  tombstone." 

"  I  will.  Have  you  given  orders  for 
it?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Farewell,  sir.  Farewell, 
Harry,"  he  added,  as  the  two  sons 
came  in.  "Isaac,  I  shall  see  you  in 
London." 

He  passed  swiftly  out  to  the  mourn- 
ing-coach and  was  driven  home.  Above 
every  thing  on  earth  George  hated  this 
leave-taking  :  but  there  were  two  or 
three  to  whom  it  had  to  be  spoken. 

Not  until  the  dusk  did  he  go  up  to 
Ashlydyat.  He  called  in  at  Lady  Go- 
dolphin's  Folly  as  he  passed  ;  she  was 
his  father's  widow,  and  Bessy  was 
there.  My  lady  was  very  cool.  My 
lady  told  him  that  it  was  his  place  to 
give  the  refusal  of  Meta  to  her,  and 
she  should  never  forgive  the  slight. 
From  the  very  moment  she  heard  that 
Maria's  life  was  in  danger,  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  break  through 
her  rules  of  keeping  children  at  a  dis- 
tance and  to  take  the  child.  She  should 
have  reared  her  in  every  luxury  as  Miss 
Godolphin  of  Ashlydyat,  and  left  her 
a  handsome  fortune  :  as  it  was,  she 
washed  her  hands  of  her.  George 
thanked  her  for  her  good  intention  as 
a  matter  of  course,  but  his  heart  leaped 
within  him  at  the  thought  that  Meta 
was  safe  and  secure  with  Cecil.  He 
would  have  taken  her  and  Margery 
out  to  make  acquaintance  with  the  ele- 
phants rather  than  have  left  Meta  to 
Lady  Godolphin. 


"  She'll  get  over  the  smart,  George," 
whispered  Bessy,  as  she  came  out  to 
bid  him  God-speed.  "I  shall  be  hav- 
ing the  child  here  sometimes,  you 
know.  My  lady's  all  talk  :  she  never 
cherishes  resentment  long." 

He  entered  the  old  home,  Ashly- 
dyat, and  was  left  alone  with  Meta  at 
his  own  request.  She  was  in  the  deep- 
est black :  crape  tucks  on  her  short 
frock;  not  a  bit  of  white  to  be  seen 
about  her  save  her  socks  and  the  tips 
of  her  drawers  ;  and  Cecil  had  bought 
her  a  jet  necklace  of  round  beads,  with 
a  little  black  cross  hanging  from  it  on 
her  neck.  George  sat  down  and  took 
her  on  his  knee.  What  with  the  drawn 
blinds  and  the  growing  twilight  the 
room  was  nearly  dark,  and  he  had  to 
look  closely  at  the  little  face  turned  to 
him.  She  was  very  quiet,  rather  pale, 
as  if  she  had  grieved  a  good  deal  in 
the  last  few  days. 

"Meta,"  he  began,  and  then  he 
stopped  to  clear  his  husky  voice — 
"  Meta,  I  am  going  away." 

She  made  no  answer.  She  buried 
her  face  upon  him  and  began  to  cry 
softly.  It  was  no  news  to  her,  for 
Cecil  had  talked  to  her  the  previous 
night.  But  she  clasped  her  arms 
tightly  round  him  as  if  she  could  not 
let  him  go,  and  began  to  tremble. 

"Meta  !  my  child  !"  4 

"I  want  mamma!"  burst  from  the 
little  full  heart.  "I  want  mamma  to 
be  with  me  again.  Is  she  gone  away 
forever  ?  Is  she  put  down  in  the 
grave  with  Uncle  Thomas  ?  Oh,  papa ! 
I  want  to  see  her !" 

A  moment's  struggle  with  himself, 
and  then  George  Godolphin  gave  way 
to  the  emotion  which  he  had  so  suc- 
cessfully restrained  in  the  church-yard. 
They  sobbed  together,  the  lather  and 
child  :  her  face  against  his,  the  sobs 
bursting  freely  from  his  bosom.  He 
let  them  come — loud,  passionate,  bit- 
ter sobs — unchecked,  unsubdued.  Do 
not  despise  him  for  it.  They  are  not 
the  worst  men  who  can  thus  give  way 
to  the  vehemence  of  our  common  na- 
ture 

It  spent  itself  after  a  time  ;  such 
emotion  must  spend  itself:  but  it  could 


T  II  E      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T . 


443 


not  wholly  pass  yet.  Meta  was  the 
first  to  speak,  the  same  vain  wish 
breaking  from  her,  the  same  cry. 

"  I  want  mamma !  Why  did  she  go 
away  forever?" 

"Not  forever,  Meta.  Only  for  a 
time.  Oh,  child,  we  shall  go  to  her, 
i — we  shall  go  to  her  in  a  little  while. 
Mamma's  gone  to  be  an  angel, — to 
keep  a  place  for  us  in  heaven." 

"  How  long  will  it  be  ?" 

"Not  a  moment  of  our  lives  but  it 
will  draw  nearer  and  nearer.  Meta, 
it  may  be  well  for  us  that  those  we 
love  should  go  on  first,  or  we  might 
never  care  to  go  thither  of  ourselves." 

She  lay  more  quietly.  George  laid 
bis  hand  upon  her  head,  unconsciously 
playing  with  her  golden  hair,  his  tears 
dropping  on  it. 

"  You  must  think  of  mamma  always, 
Meta.  Think  that  she  is  looking  down 
at  you,  on  all  you  do,  and  try  and 
please  her.  She  was  very  good ;  and 
you  must  be  good,  making  ready  to  go 
to  her." 

A  renewed  burst  of  sobs  came  from 
the  child.  George  waited,  and  then 
resumed. 

"  When  I  come  back, — if  I  live  to  come 
back, — or  when  you  come  to  me  in  In- 
dia,— at  any  rate  when  I  see  you  again, 
Meta,  you  will  probably  be  grown  up, 
— no  longer  a  child,  but  a  young  lady. 
If  I  shall  only  find  you  like  mamma 
was  in  all  things,  I  shall  be  happy. 
Do  you  understand,  darling  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  sobbed. 

"  Good,  and  gentle,  and  kind,  and 
lady-like, — and  remembering  always 
that  there's  another  world,  and  that 
mamma  has  gone  on  to  it.  I  should 
like  to  have  kept  you  with  me,  Meta, 
but  it  cannot  be  :  I  must  go  out  alone. 
You  will  not  quite  forget  me,  will 
you  ?" 

She  put  up  her  hand  and  her  face 
to  his,  and  moaned  in  her  pain. 
George  laid  his  aching  brow  on  hers. 
He  knew  that  it  might  be  the  last 
time  they  should  meet  on  earth. 

"  I  shall  write  to  you  by  every  mail, 
Meta,  and  jrou  must  write  to  me. 
You  can  put  great  capital  letters  to- 
gether now,  and  that  will  do  to  begin 
with.    And,"  his  voice  faltered,  "  when 


you  walk  by  mamma's  grave  on  Sun- 
days— and  see  her  name  there — you 
will  remember  her — and  me.  You 
will  think  how  we  are  separated, — 
mamma,  in  heaven  ;  I,  in  a  far-off 
land  ;  you,  here, — but  you  know  the 
separation  will  not  be  forever,  and 
each  week  will  bring  us  nearer  to  its 
close, — its  close  in  some  way.  If — 
if  we  never  meet  on  earth  again,  Me- 
ta  " 

"  Oh,  don't,  papa  !  I  want  you  to 
come  back  to  me." 

He  choked  down  his  emotion.  He 
took  the  little  face  in  his  hands  and 
kissed  it  fervently, — in  that  moment, 
in  his  wrung  feelings,  he  almost 
wished  he  had  had  no  beloved  child  to 
abandon. 

"  You  must  be  called  by  your  own 
name  now.  I  should  wish  it.  Meta 
was  all  very  well,"  he  continued,  half 
to  himself,  "when  she  was  here  ;  that 
the  names  should  not  clash.  Be  a 
good  child,  my  darling.  Be  very  obe- 
dient to  Aunt  Cecil,  as  you  used  to  be 
to  mamma." 

"Aunt  Cecil  is  not  mamma,"  said 
Meta,  her  little  heart  swelling. 

"  No,  my  darling,  but  she  will  be  to 
you  as  mamma,  and  she  and  Lord  Av- 
eril  will  love  you  very  much.  I  wish, 
I  wish  I  could  have  kept  you  with 
me,  Meta  !" 

She  wished  it  also.  If  ever  a  child 
knew  what  an  aching  heart  was,  she 
knew  it  then. 

"And  now  I  must  go,"  he  added, — 
for  indeed  he  did  not  care  to  prolong 
the  pain.  "  I  shall  write  to  you  from 
London,  Meta,  and  I  shall  write  you 
quite  a  packet  when  I  am  on  board 
ship.  You  must  get  on  well  with 
your  writing,  so  as  to  be  able  soon  to 
read  my  letters  yourself.  Farewell, 
farewell,  my  darling  child  !" 

How  long  she  clung  to  him,  how 
long  he  kept  her  clinging,  he  paid  no 
heed.  When  the  emotion  on  both 
sides  was  spent,  he  took  her  by  the 
hand  and  led  her  to  the  next  room. 
Lady  Averil  came  forward. 

"  Cecil,"  he  said,  his  voice  quiet  and 
subdued,  "  she  must  be  called  Maria 
now,  in  remembrance  of  her  mo- 
ther." 


444 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  II  L  Y  D  Y  A  T. 


"  Yes,"  said  Cecil,  eagerly.  "  We 
should  all  like  it.  Sit  down,  George. 
Lord  Averil  has  stepped  out  some- 
where, but  he  will  not  be  long-." 

"  I  cannot  stay.  I  shall  see  him 
outside,  I  dare  say.  If  not,  he  will 
come  to  the  station.  Will  you  say  to 
him " 

A  low  burst  of  tears  from  the  child 
interrupted  the  sentence.  George,  in 
speaking  to  Cecil,  had  loosed  her 
hand,  and. she  laid  her  head  down  on 
a  sofa  to  cry.  He  took  her  up  in  his 
arms,  and  she  clung  to  him  tightly, — 
it  was  only  the  old  scene  over  again, 
and  George  felt  that  they  were  not 
alone  now.  He  imprinted  a  last  kiss 
upon  her  face,  and  gave  her  to  his 
sister. 

"She  had  better  be  taken  away, 
Cecil." 

Lady  Averil,  with  many  loving 
words,  carried  her  outside  the  door, 
sobbing  as  she  was,  and  called  to  her 
maid.  "  Be  very  kind  to  her,"  she 
whispered.  "  It  is  a  sad  parting.  And 
— Harriet — henceforth  she  is  to  be 
called  by  her  proper  name,  Maria." 

"  She  will  overget  it  in  a  day  or  two, 
George,"  said  Lady  Averil,  return- 
ing. 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  he  answered, 
his  face  turned  from  Cecil.  "  Cherish 
the  remembrance  of  her  mother  within 
her  as  much  as  you  possibly  can,  Ce- 
cil :  I  should  wish  her  to  grow  up  like 
Maria." 

"  If  you  would  but  stay  a  last  hour 
with  us  !" 

"I  can't,  I  can't;  it  is  best  that  I 
should  go.  I  do  not  know  what  the 
future  may  bring  forth,"  he  lingered 
to  say.  "  Whether  I  shall  come  home, 
or  live  to  come  home  ;  or  she,  when 
she  is  older,  come  out  to  me  ;  it  is  all 
uncertain." 

"  Were  I  you,  George,  I  would  not 
indulge  the  thought  of  the  latter.  She 
will  be  better  here, — asitseemstome." 

"  Yes,  there's  no  doubt  of  it.  But 
the  separation  is  a  cruel  one.  How- 
ever, the  future  must  be  left.  God 
bless  you,  Cecil !  and  thank  you, 
thank  you  ever  for  your  kindness." 

The  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  as 
he  bent  to  kiss  her.     "  George,"  she 


whispered  timidly.  "  if  I  might  but  ask 
you  one  question." 

"Ask  me  any  thing." 

"  Is — have  you  any  intention — shall 
you  be  likely  to  think  of — of  replacing 
Maria  by  Charlotte  Pain — of  making 
her  your  wife  ?" 

"Replacing  Maria  by  her /"  he 
echoed,  his  face  flushing.  "  Heaven 
forgive  you  for  thinking  it  1" 

The  question  cured  George's  pres- 
ent emotion  more  effectually  than  any 
thing  else  could  have  done.  But  his 
haughty  anger  against  Cecil  was  un- 
reasonable, and  he  felt  that  it  was. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  dear :  but  it 
sounded  so  like  an  insult  to  my  dear 
wife.  Be  easy :  she  will  never  replace 
Maria," 

In  the  porch,  as  George  went  out, 
he  met  Lord  Averil  hastening  in.  Lord 
Averil  would  have  put  his  arm  within 
George's  to  walk  with  him  through 
the  grounds,  but  George  drew  back. 

"  No,  not  to  night, — let  me  go 
alone.  I  am  not  fit  for  companion- 
ship. Good-night.  Good-by,"  he  add- 
ed, his  voice  hoarse.  "  I  thought  to 
say  a  word  of  gratitude  to  you,  for 
the  past,  for  the  present,  but  I  cannot. 
If  I  live " 

"  Don't  say  '  if,'  George.  Go  away 
with  a  good  heart,  and  take  my  best 
wishes  with  you.  A  new  land  and  a 
new  life  !  you  may  live  the  past  down 
yet," 

Their  hands  lingered  together  in 
a  firm  pressure,  and  George  turned 
away  from  Ashlydyat  for  the  last 
time,;— Ashlydyat  that  might  have 
been  his. 

There  was  Margery  yet :  and  he 
had  one  or  two  final  things  to  say  to 
her,  —  arrangements  to  make.  The 
apartments  were  to  be  given  up  on  the 
morrow,  and  Margery  would  then 
take  up  her  abode  at  Ashlydyat ;  for 
it  was  there  she  had  elected  to  remain. 
She  could  not  give  up  her  darling, 
her  bereaved  darling,  who  in  Marge- 
ry's opinion  would  be  trebly  an  or- 
phan if  she  also  deserted  her;  and  it 
appeared  likely  that  there  would  not 
in  future  be  so  indulged  a  damsel  in 
all  the  county  as  Miss  Maria  Godol- 
phiu. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT 


445 


CHAPfER  LXXY. 

A   SAFE   VOYAGE  TO   HIM  ! 

Was  it  ever  your  fate  or  fortune  to 
be  aboard  an  Indian  vessel  when  it 
was  just  on  the  start  ?  i  If  so,  there's 
no  doubt  you  retain  a  more  vivid  than 
agreeable  remembrance  of  the  reign- 
ing confusion.  Passengers  coming  on 
at  the  last  moment,  and  going  frantic 
over  their  luggage  or  the  discovered 
inconveniences  of  their  cabins  ;  cords 
and  ropes  creaking  and  coiling  ;  sail- 
ors shouting,  officers  commanding ; 
boxes  shooting  up  from  the  boats  on 
to  the  deck,  and  to  your  feet,  only  in 
turn  to  be  shot  down  again  to  the 
hold  !  It  is  Bedlam  gone  frantic  and 
nothing  less. 

On  a  fine  ship,  anchored  off  Graves- 
end,  this  scene  was  taking  place  on  a 
■jrisp  day  in  early  January.  A  bright, 
inspiriting,  sunny  day,  giving  earnest 
— if  there's  any  thing  in  the  popular 
belief — of  a  bright  voyage.  One  gen- 
tleman stood  aloof  from  the  general 
melee.  He  had  been  on  board  half  an 
hour  or  more  ;  had  seen  to  his  cabin, 
his  berth,  his  baggage, — so  much  of 
the  latter  as  he  could  see  to  ;  and  now 
stood  alone  watching  the  turmoil. 
Others, — passengers, — had  come  on 
board  in  groups,  surrounded  by  hosts 
of  friends  ;  he  came  alone  :  a  tall  and 
very  distinguished-looking  man,  at- 
tired in  the  deepest  mourning,  with  a 
gray  plaid  crossed  on  his  shoulder. 

As  if  jealous  that  the  ship  should 
have  all  the  confusion  to  itself,  the 
shore  was  getting  up  a  little  on  its 
own  account.  Amidst  the  drays,  the 
trucks,  the  carts ;  amidst  the  cases 
and  packages  which  were  heaped  on 
the  bank, — not  all,  it  was  to  be  hoped, 
for  that  ship,  or  she'd  never  get  off  to- 
day ;  amidst  the  numerous  crowds  of 
living  beings,  idlers  and  workers,  that 
such  a  scene  brings  together,  there 
came  something  dashing  into  the  very 
throng  of  them,  scattering  every  thing 
that  could  be  scattered,  right  and  left. 

An  exceedingly  remarkable  car- 
riage, of  the  style  that  may  be  called 
"  dashing,"  especially  if  height  be  any 
criterion, — its  wheels  red  and  green, 


its  horses  of  high  mettle,  and  a  couple 
of  tierce  dogs  barking  and  leaping 
round  it.  The  scattered  people  looked 
up  in  astonishment  to  see  a  lady  guid- 
ing those  horses,  and  deemed  at  first 
the  gleaming  sun,  shining  right  into 
their  eyes,  had  deceived  them  :  paw- 
ing, snorting,  prancing,  fiery  animals  ; 
which,  far  from  being  spent  by  their 
ten  or  twelve-mile  journey,  looked  as 
if  they  were  eager  to  start  upon  an- 
other. The  lady  managed  them  ad- 
mirably :  a  very  handsome  lady  was 
she,  of  the  same  style  as  the  carriage, 
dashing,  with  jet-black  eyes,  large 
and  free,  and  a  scarlet  feather  in  her 
hat  that  might  have  been  found  thirty- 
six  inches  long,  had  it  been  measured 
from  top  to  tip.  A  quiet  little  gen- 
tleman, slight  and  fair,  sat  beside  her, 
and  a  groom  lounged  grandly  with 
folded  arms  in  the  back  seat.  She, 
on  her  high  cushions,  was  a  good  yard 
above  either  of  them  ;  the  little  gentle- 
man in  fact  was  completely  eclipsed  : 
and  she  held  the  reins  in  her  white 
gauntleted  hands  and  played  gallantly 
with  the  whip  perfectly  at  ease,  con- 
scious that  she  was  those  foaming 
'steeds'  master.  Suddenly,  without 
the  least  warning,  she  drew  them  back 
on  their  haunches. 

"There  she  is  !  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream.  Can't  you  read  it,  Dolf? 
The  Indus.  How  stupid  of  the  peo- 
ple to  tell  us  she  was  lying  lower 
down  !" 

Jumping  from  the  carriage  without 
waiting  to  be  assisted,  she  left  the 
groom  in  charge  and  made  her  way  to 
the  pier,  condescendingly  taking  the 
gentleman's  arm  as  she  hastened  up 
it,  and  hissing  off  the  dogs  as  a  hint 
that  they  were  to  remain  behind.  I 
am  sure  you  cannot  need  an  introduc- 
tion to  either  of  these  people,  but  you 
shall  have  it,  for  all  that :  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Rodolf  Pain. 

She,  Charlotte,  did  all  the  acting, 
and  talking  too.  Her  husband  had 
always  been  of  retiring  manners,  as 
you  may  remember  ;  and  he  had  now 
grown  far  more  retiring  than  he  used 
to  be.  Charlotte  made  the  bargain 
for  a  boat :  they  got  into  it,  and  were 
pulled  to  the  ship's  side. 


446 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASHLYDYAT. 


For  a  few  moments  they  bad  to 
take  their  chance:  they  made  only 
two  more  in  the  universal  confusion: 
but  Charlotte  caught  hold  of  a  hand- 
some young  man  with  a  gold  band 
upon  his  cap,  who  was  shouting  out 
orders. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  whether  Mr. 
George  Godolphin  has  come  on  board 
yet  ?" 

"  Mr.  George  Godolphin,"  repeated 
the  young  officer,  cutting  short  some 
directions  midway,  and  looking  half 
bewildered  in  the  general  disorder. 

"A  first-class  passenger,  bound  for 
Calcutta,"  explained  Charlotte. 

"  I  can  inquire.  Tymms,"  beckon- 
ing to  him  one  of  the  middies,  "go 
and  ask  the  steward  whether  a  gentle- 
man of  the  name  of  Godolphin  has 
come  down." 

But  there  was  no  need  of  further 
search.  Charlotte's  restless  eyes  had 
caught  sight  of  George, — the  solitary 
passenger  in  mourning  whom  you  saw 
standing  alone.  She  and  Mr.t  Pain 
made  the  best  of  their  way  to  him, 
over  the  impediments  blocking  up  the 
deck. 

He  did  not  see  their  approach.  He» 
was  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  ship 
on  the  opposite  side  to  that  facing  the 
shore,  and  Charlotte  gave  him  a  smart 
rap  on  the  arm  with  her  gauntlet- 
glove. 

"  Now,  Mr.  George  Godolphin  ! 
what  do  you  say  for  your  manners  ?" 

He  turned  quickly,  his  face  flushing 
slightly  with  surprise  when  he  saw 
them  standing  there  :  and  he  shook 
hands  with  them  both. 

"I  ask  what  you  have  to  say  for 
your  manners,  Mr.  George  ?  The 
very  idea  of  your  leaving  England  for 
good,  and  never  calling  to  say  good- 
by  to  us  !" 

"  I  met  Mr.  Pain  a  day  or  two  ago," 

said  George.     "  He " 

"  Met  Mr.  Pain  !  what  on  earth  if 
you  did  ?"  interrupted  Charlotte.  "  Mr. 
Pain's  not  me.  You  might  have  found 
time  to  dine  with  us.  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  quarrel  with  you,  George  Go- 
dolphin, by  way  of  a  leave-taking." 

Something  like  a  smile  crossed 
George's  lips.     "  The  fact  is,  I  thought 


T  might  have  seen  you  at  the  YerrahV, 
Mrs.  Pain.  I  went  there  for  half  an 
hour  yesterdav.     I  charged  Mrs.Yer- 

rall " 

"  Rubbish  !"  retorted  Charlotte. 
"  When  you  must  have  known  we 
had  moved  into  a  house  at  Shooter's 
Hill  you  could  not  suppose  we  were 
still  at  the  Yerralls'.  Our  catching 
you  this  morning  here  was  a  mere 
chance.  We  stayed  late  in  town  yes- 
terday afternoon  at  the  furniture-ware- 
house, and,  in  driving  back  down  the 
Strand,  saw  Isaac  Hastings,  so  I  pulled 
up  to  ask  what  had  become  of  you, 
and  whether  you  were  dead  or  alive. 
He  informed  us  you  were  to  sail  to- 
day from  Gravesend,  and  I  told  Dolf 
I  should  drive  down.  But  it  is  ill- 
mannered  of  }"ou,  Mr.  George." 

"  You  will  readily  understand,  that 
since  my  last  return  from  Prior's  Ash, 
I  have  not  felt  inclined  for  visiting," 
he  said,  in  a  low,  grave  tone,  uncon- 
sciously glancing  at  his  black  attire. 
"  I  intended  you  no  discourtesy,  Mrs. 
Pain  :  but  for  one  thing,  I  did  not 
know  where  you  might  be  met  with." 
"And  couldn't  find  out!"  retorted 
Charlotte.  "  Dolf  could  have  given 
you  the  address  I  suppose  the  other 
day,  had  you  asked.  He's  too  great 
a  fool  to  think  to  give  it  of  his  own 
accord." 

George  looked  at  "Dolf,"  whom  his 
wife  seemed  so  completely  to  ignore, 
— looked  at  him  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
as  if  he  would  atone  for  Charlotte's 
rudeness.  "  We  were  not  together  a 
minute,  were  we,  Mr.  Pain  ?  I  was 
in  a  hurry,  and  you  seemed  in  one." 

"  Don't  say  any  more  about  it,  Mr. 
Godolphin,"  spoke  Dolf,  as  resentfully 
as  he  dared.  "  That's  just  like  her ! — 
making  a  fuss  over  nothing  !  Of  course 
you  could  not  be  expected  to  visit  at 
such  a  time  :  and  anybody  but  Char- 
lotte would  have  the  good  feeling  to 
see  it.  I  am  pleased  to  be  able  to  see 
you*  here  and  wish  you  a  pleasant 
voyage  ;  but  I  remonstrated  with  her 
this  morning,  that  it  was  scarcely  the 
right  thing  to  intrude  upon  you.  But 
she  never  listens,  you  know." 

"  You  needn't  have  come,"  snapped 
Charlotte. 


THE      SHADOW      OF      ASIILYDYAT. 


417 


"And  then  you  would  have  gone 
on  at  me  about  my  ill-manners,  as  you 
have  to  Mr.  Godolphin  !  One  never 
knows  how  to  please  you,  Charlotte." 

George  resumed, — to  break  the  si- 
lence possibly,  more  than  with  any 
other  motive  :  "  Have  you  settled  at 
Shooter's  Hill  ?" 

"  Settled  !"  shrieked  Charlotte,  "set- 
tled at  Shooter's  Hill ! — where  it's  ten 
miles,  good,  from  any  theatre  or  other 
place  of  amusement?  No,  thank  you. 
A  friend  of  Verrall's  had  this  place  to 
let  for  a  few  weeks,  and  Dolf  was 
idiot  enough  to  take  it " 

"  You  consented  first,  Charlotte," 
interrupted  poor  Dolf. 

"Which  I  never  should  have  done 
had  I  reflected  on  the  bother  of  get- 
ting up  to  town,"  said  Charlotte,  equa- 
bly. "  Settled  at  Shooter's  Hill!  I'd 
as  soon  do  as  you  are  going  to  do, 
Mr  George, — bury  myself  alive  in 
Calcutta.  We  have  taken  on  lease  a 
charming  house  in  Belgravia,  and  shall 
enter  on  a  succession  of  dinner-parties : 
one  a  week  we  think  of  giving  during 
the  season.  We  shall  not  get  into  it 
much  before  February  :  it  takes  some 
time  to  choose  furniture." 

"  I  hate  dinner-parties,"  said  Dolf, 
ruefully. 

"  You  are  not  obliged  to  appear  at 
them,"  said  Charlotte,  with  much  gra- 
ciousness.  "  I  can  get  your  place 
filled  at  table,  I  dare  say.  What  is 
that  noise  and  scuffling  ?" 

"  They  are  heaving  the  anchor," 
replied  George.  "  We  shall  soon  be 
on  the  move." 

"  I  hear  great  alterations  are  being 
made  at  Ashlvdyat,"  remarked  Char- 
lotte. 

"  Only  on  the  spot  called  the  Dark 
Plain.  The  archway  is  taken  down 
and  a  summer-house  being  built  on 
the  site, — an  extensive  sort  of  sum- 
mer-house, for  it  is  to  contain  three 
or  four  rooms,  I  believe  :  it  will  have 
a  fine  view." 

"  And  what  of  those  ugly  gorse- 
bushes  ?" 

"  They  will  be  cleared  away,  and  the 
place  laid  out  as  a  pleasure-garden." 

"  Is  my  lady  starring  it  at  the 
Folly?" 


"  Scarcely, — just  now,"  quietly  an- 
swered George. 

"  Miss  Godolphin  has  gone  to  Scot- 
land, I  hear." 

"  Yes.  Bessy  will  reside  with  Lady 
Godolphin." 

"  And  tart  Margery  ?  What  has 
become  of  her  ?" 

"  She  remains  with  Maria  at  Asli- 
lydyat." 

Charlotte  opened  her  eyes, — Char- 
lotte had  a  habit  of  opening  them 
when  puzzled  or  surprised.  "  Maria  ! 
Who  is  Maria  ?" 

"  The  child.  We  call  her  by  her 
proper  name  now." 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  nearly  forgot 
it,"  returned  Charlotte,  in  the  old  good- 
natured  tone  :  for,  it  may  be  remarked, 
that  during  the  interview  her  tone  had 
been  what  she  had  just  called  Mar- 
gery,— tart.  "  I  should  like  to  have 
the  child  up  on  a  visit  when  we  get 
into  our  house,  and  astonish  her  mind 
with  the  wonders  of  London.  I  sup- 
pose -Lady  Averil  will  make  no  ob- 
jection ?" 

A  very  perceptible  flush,  red  and 
haughty,  dyed  the  face  of  George 
Godolphin.  "You  are  very  kind  to 
think  of  it,  Mrs.  Pain  ;  but  I  fear 
Lady  Averil  would  not  consent.  In- 
deed, I  have  desired  that  the  child 
may  not  visit,  except  amidst  her  im- 
mediate relatives." 

"As  you  please,"  said  Charlotte, 
resentfully.  "  Dolf,  I  think  we  may 
as  well  be  moving.  I  only  meant  it 
as  a  kindness  to  the  child." 

"  And  I  thank  you  for  it,"  said 
George,  in  a  warm  tone.  "  For  all 
the  kindness  you  have  shown  her, 
Mrs.  Pain,  I  thank  you  sincerely  and 
heartily.     Take  care  !" 

He  interposed  to  prevent  a  great 
rope,  that  was  being  borne  along, 
from  touching  her.  Charlotte  began 
in  earnest  to  think  it  »vas  time  to 
move,  unless  she  woula  be  carried 
down  the  river  in  the  ship. 

"When  shall  you  come  back?"  she 
asked  him. 

He  shook  his  head.  He  could  not 
tell  any  more  than  she  could.  The 
future  was  all  indistinct. 

"  Well,  you  won't  forget  to  find  us 


448 


THE      SHADOW      OF      A  S  H  L  Y  D  Y  A  T , 


out,  whenever  you  do  come,"  returned 
Charlotte. 

"  Certainly  not.     Thank  you." 

"  Do  you  know,"  cried  Charlotte, 
impulsively,  "  you  are  strangely  dif- 
ferent in  manners,  George  Godolphin! 
They  have  grown  as  cold  and  formal 
as  a  block  of  ice.   Haven't  they,  Dolf  ?" 

"  If  they  have,  it's  your  fault,"  was 
the  satisfactory  answer  of  Dolf.  "You 
keep  firing  off  such  a  heap  of  personal 
questions,  Charlotte.  I  see  no  differ- 
ence in  Mr.  Godolphin  :  but  he  has 
had  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  you  know." 

"  Shall  we  ever  hear  of  you  ?"  con- 
tinued Charlotte,  pushing  back  Dolf 
with  her  elbow,  and  completely  eclips- 
ing his  meek  face  with  her  swinging 
scarlet  feather. 

"  No  doubt  you  will,  Mrs.  Pain, 
through  one  or  another.  Not  that  I 
shall  be  a  voluminous  correspondent 
with  England,  I  expect :  except,  per- 
haps, with  Ashlydyat." 

"  Well,  fare  you  well,  George,"  she 
said,  holding  out  both  her  gauntleted 
hands.  "  You  seem  rather  cranky 
this  morning,  but  I  forgive  you  :  it  is 
trying  to  the  spirits  to  leave  one's  na- 
tive place  for  good  and  all.  I  wish 
vou  all  good  luck  with  my  best 
heart !" 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  taking  the 
hands  within  his  own  and  shaking 
them;  "thank  you  always.  Good-by. 
Good-by,  Mr.  Pain." 

Mr.  Pain  shook  hands  in  a  less  de- 
monstrative manner  than  his  wife,  and 
his  leave-taking,  if  quiet,  was  not  less 
sincere.  George  piloted  them  to  the 
gangway,  and  saw  them  pulled  ashore 
in  the  little  boat. 

They  ascended  to  the  carriage, 
which  by  all  appearance  had  been 
keeping  up  a  perpetual  dance  of  com- 
motion since  they  left  it,  the  fault 
probably  of  its  horses  and  its  dogs : 
and  Charlotte,  taking  her  high  seat, 
dashed  away  in  style,  her  whip  flour- 


ishing, the  dogs  barking,  her  red  fea- 
ther tossing  and  gleaming.  What 
she'll  do  when  these  feathers  go  out 
of  fashion  it's  hard  to  say  :  Charlotte 
could  hardly  stir  out  without  one. 

And  by-and-by,  the  anchor  up,  the 
tug  attached,  the  good  ship  Indus  was 
fairly  on  her  way,  being  towed 
smoothly  down  the  Channel  under 
the  command  of  her  pilot.  The  pas- 
sengers were  tormenting  themselves 
still :  the  sailors  seemed  to  be  per- 
petually hurrying  hither  and  thither, 
the  steward  was  m  a  tumult ;  but 
George  Godolphin,  wrapped  in  his 
gray  plaid,  remained  in  his  place, 
quiet  and  still,  gazing  out  over  the 
bows  of  the  vessel.  What  were  his 
reflections,  as  his  native  land  began 
to  recede  from  his  eyes  ?  Did  he  re- 
gret it  ?  Did  he  regret  the  position 
he  had  lost;  the  rnin  he  had  wrought; 
the  death  of  his  wife  ?  Did  he  finally 
regret  the  inevitable  Past,  with  all 
its  mistakes  and  sins  ? — and  think 
that  if  it  could  but  come  over  again, 
he  would  act  differently  ?  Possibly 
so.  Once  he  lifted  his  hat,  and  pushed 
the  golden  hair  farther  from  his  brow, 
from  his  handsome  face,  not  less  bright 
or  handsome  than  of  yore, — save  in 
its  expression.  In  that,  there  was  an 
unmistakable  look  of  weary  sadness, 
never  before  seen  on  the  features  of 
gay  George  Godolphin. 

And  when,  hours  after,  the  rest  of 
the  cabin  passengers  were  summoned 
to  dinner,  he  never  stirred,  but  kept 
his  place  there,  looking  out  into  the 
dusky  night,  glancing  up  at  the  stars 
that  came  glittering  out  in  the  blue 
canopy  of  heaven. 

A  safe  landing  to  him  on  the  shores 
of  Calcutta  !  A  safe,  and  sure  land- 
ing on  a  different  shore  that  must 
come  after  it ! 

And  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pain's  dinner- 
parties in  Belgravia  are  a  great  suc- 
cess. 


THE     END. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  ASHLYDYAT. 

BY    MRS.    HENRY   WOOD. 

AUTHOR    OF     "VERNER'S     PRIDE,"    "THE     CASTLE'S     HEIR,"    "THE     EARL'S     HEIRS," 

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THE  SHADOW  OP  ASHLYDYATT.    By 

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way Edition"  of  it,  complete  in  one  volume,  paper  cover, 
price  One  Dollar. 

THE  MYSTERY.  By  MRS.  HENRY  WOOD. 
Author  of  "The  Channinzs,"  "The  Earl's  Heirs,"  "A 
Life'6  Secret."  "The  Castle's  Heir,"  "  A  Foggy  Night," 
etc.      Price  50  cents  in  paper,  or  75  cents  in  cloth. 

THE    CHANNINGS.    A   Domestic  Novel 

Of  lletti  hub.  By  Mrs.  HENRY  WOOD,  Author  of 
'•  Earl's  Heirs,"  "  A  Life's  Secret,"  "The  Castle's  Heir." 
Price  75  cents,  in  paper  cover,  or  Ono  Dollar  in  cloth. 

A   LIFE'S  SECRET.    By  Mrs.  HENRY  WOOD, 

Author  of  "The  Earl's  Heirs, The  Channings,"    "The 

Mystery,"  "  The  Castle's  Heir,"  etc.  Price  50  cents  a  copy, 
in  paper  cover,  or  75  cents  in  cloth. 

THE  EARL'S  HEIRS.  A  Tale  of  Do- 
mestic Life.  By  MRS.  HENRY  WOOD,  Author  of 
"  The  Channings,"  "  The  Mystery,"  "  A  Life's  Secret," 
etc.     Price  50  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  75  cents  in  cloth. 

A  FOGGY  NIGHT  AT  OPPORD.  By  Mrs. 
HENRY  WOOD.  Author  of  "The  Channings,"  "The 
Mystery,"  "  The  Castle's  Heir,"  etc.     Price  25  cents. 

AURORA    FLOYD)    A    Domestic    Storjr. 

By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddou,  author  of"  Lady  Audley's  Secret," 
"Lady  Lisle,"  etc.  One  volume,  octavo.  Price  50  cents 
in  paper,  or  a  finer  edition  in  cloth  for  One  Dollar. 

FOR  BETTER,  FOR  WORSE.  A  Charra- 
Ine  Love  Story.  From  "Temple  Bar."  superior  to  "  John 
Halifax,"  or  "Jane  Eyre."    Price  50  cents. 


BEST  NOVEL  ON  THE  WAR. 

SHOULDER-STRAPS.  A  novel  of  New  York, 
and  the  Armv  in  1862,  By  Henry  Morford,  editor  of  the 
"  New  York  Atlas."  It  is  the  book  for  Ladies  I  Gentle- 
men I  Soldiers  1  Wives  and  Widows,  Fast  Young  Ladies, 
Sli.w  Young  Ladies.  Married  Men  and  Bachelors,  Young 
Ladies  about  to  be  Married,  and  those  who  have  no  Matri- 
monial Prospects  whatever  1  Stay-at-Homc  Guards,  Cov- 
er" ment  Officials,  Army  Contractors,  Aldermen,  Doctors, 
Judges,  Lawyers,  etc.  Complete  in  two  large  volumes, 
illustrated,  and  neatly  done  up  in  paner  cover.  Price  One 
Dollar  a  copy:  or  hound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  ,«1 .50. 
We  a  so  publish  a  "  Railway  Edition"  of  it,  complete  in 
oue  volume,  paper  cover.     Price  Out-  Dollar. 


WILKIE  COLLINS'  NEW  BOOKS. 

SIGHTS  A-FOOT.  By  WILKIE  COLLINS, 
author  of  the  "  Woman  in  White,"  "  Dead  Secret,"  "  Hide 
and  Seek,"  "  After  Dark,"  "  Stolen  Mask,"  "  The  Crossed 
Path,"  "  Sister  Rose."  "  The  Yellow  Mask,"  etc.,  is  pub- 
lished and  for  sale  this  day.  complete  in  one  large  octavo 
volume,  large  type,  double  column,  and  printed  on  the  finest 
and  best  of  white  paper.     Price  Fifty  Cent9  a  copy. 

THE  DEAD  SECRET.  By  WILKIE  COL- 
LINS. Complete  in  one  large  duodecimo  volume,  of  over 
600  pages,  hound  in  cloth,  for  .91.50;  or  in  two  vols.,  paper 
cover,  for  ,511 .00  We  also  publish  a  cheap  edition  in  octavo 
form,  price  50  cents  in  paper,  or  75  cents  in  cloth. 

THE  CROSSED  PATH;  or,  BASIL.    Two 

vol9.,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or,  in  one  vol., 
cloth,  for  51.50. 

HIDE  AND  SEEK.  By  WILKIE  COLLINS, 
A  new  edition.  One  volume,  octavo,  paper  cover,  price 
50  cents,  or  bound  In  cloth  for  75  cents. 

AFTER  DARK..  By  WILKIE  COLLINS.  One 
Tolume,  paper  cover,  price  50  cents,  or  in  cloth,  for  75  cts. 

THE  STOLEN  MASK.     Pri»e  25  cents. 

SISTER  ROSE.    Price  25  cents. 

THE  YELLOW  MASK.    Price  25  cents. 

GUSTAVE  AIMARD'S  NEW  BOOKS. 

THE  GOLD  SEEKERS.  By  GUSTAVE  AIM- 
ARD,  Author  of  "  The  Prairie  Flower,"  etc.  Price  50 
centB  a  copy. 

THE  TIGER-SLAYER.  A  Tnle  of  the 
Indian  Desert,.  By  GUSTAVE  A1MARD.  Price 
Fifty  Cents  a  copy,  in  paper  cover. 

THE  PRAIRIE  FLOWER.  By  GUSTAVE 
AIM  ARD,  Author  of  ••  The  Indian  Scout,"  etc.  Price  50 
cent6  in  paper,  or  75  cents  in  cloth. 

THE  TRAIL  HUNTER.  By  GUSTAVE 
AIMARD,  Author  of  "The  Indian  Scout,"  etc.  Price  50 
in  paper,  or  75  cent6  in  cloth. 

THE     PIRATES    OF    THE    PRAIRIES. 

By  GUSTAVE  AIMARD,  Author  of  "The  Indian 
Scout,"  etc.       Price  50  cents  in  paper,  or  75  cents  in  cloth. 

THE  TRAPPER'S  DAUGHTER.  By  GUS- 
TAVE AIMAR1J,  Author  of  "  The  Prairie  Flower,"  etc. 
Price  50  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  75  cents  in  cloth. 


LEVER'S  MILITARY  NOVELS. 

With  Illuminated  Military  Covers,  in  Colors. 

THEIR  NAMES  ARE  AS  FOLLOWS: 

CHARLES    O'MALLEY Price.    50 

JACK  H1STON;  The  Guardsman 50 

THE   KNIGHT  OF  GWYNNE 50 

HARRY  LORREQUER 50 

TOM  BURKE  OF  OURS 50 

ARTHUR  O'LEARY 50 

CON  CREGAN'S   ADVENTURES *• 

KATE  O'DONOGHUE 50 

HORACE  TEMPLETON *0 

DWENPORT  DUNN » 

THE  CONSCRIPT.    2  vols.,  each 50 

FOLLOWING  THE   DRUM 50 

VALENTINE  VOX.    By  Harry  Cockton....  50 

TWIN   LIEUTENANTS M 

STORIES  OF  WATERLOO 50 

THE   SOLDIER'S  WIFE 50 

THE  GUERILLA  CHIEF 50 

THE  THREE   GUARDSMEN "5 

TWENTY  YEARS  AFTER f5 

BR.VGELONAE,  tlie  Son  of  Alhos is 

WALLACE,  HERO  OF  SCOTLAND ^ 

FORTY-FIVE  GUARDSMEN 7R 

Sutlers  in  the  Army,  Pedlars  and  Canvassers,  can  sell 
thousands  of  the  above  works,  all  of  which  are  published 
with  Illuminated  Military  Covers,  in  colors,  making  them 
the  most  attractive  books  ever  printed. 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS' 

LIST   OF   THE   MOST   TOrULAR    AND 

BEST    WOEKS    PUBLISHED. 

IN   THIS    CATALOGUE 

WILL   BE    FOUND   THE 

LATEST  *  BEST   PUBLICATIONS, 

BY    TIIE 

HOST  POPULAR  AXD  CELEBRATED  WRITERS  L\T  THE  WORLD. 

AMONG  WHICH  WILL  BE  FOUND  THE  POPULAR  WORKS  OF 

CHARLES  DICKENS  (BOZ) ;  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT;  MRS.  CAROLINE  LEB 
IIENTZ  ;  MRS.  SOUTHWORTH'S  ;  MRS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS'  ;  FREDRIKA 
BREMER'S;  MISS  PARPOE'S  ;  JAMES  A.  MAITLAND'S-  SIR  E.  L.  BUI* 
WER'S ;  G.  P.  R.  JAMES'S ;  ELLEN  PICKERING'S  ;  CAPTAIN  MARRY 
ATT'S;  MRS.  GREY'S;  T.  S.  ARTHUR'S;  CHARLES  LEVER'S;  W.HAR 
RISON  AINSWORTH'S;  ALEXANDER  DUMAS';  D'lSRAELFS;  TIIACK 
ERAY'S  ;  SAMUEL  WARREN'S  ;  G.W.  M.  REYNOLDS';  C.  J.  PETERSON'S; 
W.  II.  MAXWELL'S  ;  LIEBIG'S  ;  DR.  HOLLICK'S  ;  J.  F.  SMITH'S  ;  GEORGE 
SAND'S;  EMERSON  BENNETT'S;  GEORGE  LIPPARD'S  ;  J.  II.  GREEN'S  ; 
PETERSON'S  HUMOROUS  LIBRARY;  HENRY  COCKTON'S;  EUGENE 
SUE'S;  CURRER  BELL'S  ;  MISS  LESLIE'S  COOK  BOOKS;  WIDDIFIELD'S 
COOK  BOOK  ;  MRS.  HALE'S  COOK  BOOK ;  MRS.  HALE'S  RECEIPTS  FOR 
THE  MILLION;  FRANCATELLI'S  MODERN  COOK  ;  MISS  LESLIE'S  BEHA- 
VIOUR BOOK;  CHRISTY  &  WHITE'S  SONG  BOOKS;  DOESTICK'S  GREAT 
WORKS  ;  WILD  SOUTHERN  SCENES,  BY  AUTHOR  OF  "WILD  WESTERN 
SCENES  ;"  LOLA  MONTEZ'  LECTURES;  AND  ALL  THE  OTHER  BEST  AU- 
THORS OF  THE  DAY,  TOO  NUMEROUS  TO  MENTION. 

]f55ir*We  would  call  the  particular  attention  of  everybody  to 
page  4  of  this  Catalogue,  where  Twenty-Eight  different  editions 
of  Dickens'  works  are  described,  and  to  page  7,  where  a  list  of  our 
Military  Novels,  with  Illuminated  War  Coveis,  in  colors,  will  be 
found,  and  to  all  the  other  pages  of  the  Catalogue,  where  will  be 
found  the  names  and  prices  of  the  best,  as  well  as  the  most  sale- 
able books  in  the  world. 

P  I)  U  a  u  c  I  p  I)  i  a : 

T.    B.    PETERSON    AND    BROTHERS, 

30  6    CHESTNUT    STREET. 


T,  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 

THIS  CATALOGUE  CONTAINS  AND 

DESCRIBES  THE  MOST  POPULAR  AND  BEST  SELLING  BOOKS  IN  THE  WORLD, 

The  Boobs  will  also  be  found  to  be  the  Best  and  Latest  Publications  by  the  most  Popular  and  Cele- 
brated Writers  in  the  World.    They  are  also  the  most  Readable  and  Entertaining  Books  published. 

Suitable  for  the  Parlor,  Library,  Sitting  Room,  Railroad,  Steamboat,  or  Soldiers'  Reading. 
Published  and  for   Sale  by  T.  B.  PETERSON   &  BROTHERS,  Philadelphia. 

#Sg~-  Booksellers  and  News  Agents,  etc.,  will  be  Supplied  at  very  Low  Rates.  -=©g 

Copies  of  any  of  Petersons'  Publications,  or  any  other  work  or  works  Advertised,  Published,  or 

Notice!  by  any  ona  at  all,  in  any  pla;a,  will  ba  seat  by  us,  Free  of  Postage,  ou  receipt  of  Price. 

jjg^TERMS ;  To  those  with  whom  we  have  no  monthly  account,  Cash  with  order.-^gjg 


MRS.  SOUTHWORTH'S  WOKKS. 
Love's   Labor   Won.     Two    vols.,    paper  cover. 

Price  One  Dollar  ;  or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $i.o0. 
The  Gipsy's  Prophecy.    Complete  in  two  vols., 

paper  cover.  Price  $1.00  ;  or  iu  one  vol-,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Mot  her-in-Law.     Complete  iu  two  volumes,  pa- 
per cover.     Trice  $1.00  ;  or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
The  Haunted  Homestead.     Two  vols.,  paper 

cover.    Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
The  Lady   of  the    Isle.     Complete  in  two  vols., 

paper  cover.    Price  $1.00  ;  or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50, 
The  Two  Sisters.     Complete  iu  two  volumes,  pa- 

percover.     Price  $1.00  ;  or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
The  Three  Beauties.     Complete   iu   two  vols., 

paper  cover.    Price  $1.00  ;   or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth, $1.50. 
VI  via.    The  Secret  of  Power.  Two  vols.,  pa- 
per cover.     Price  $1.00;  or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
India.     The  Pearl   of   Pearl    River.     Two 

vols.,  paper  cover.    Price  $1.00  ;  or  iu  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
The  Wife's   Victory.      Two  vols.,  paper  cover. 

Price  One  Dollar;   or  in  one  volume,  cloth,  lor  $1.50. 
The   Lost   Heiress.     Two  volumes,  paper  cover. 

Price  Oue  Dollar;  or  in  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
The  Missing  Bride.    Two  volumes,  paper  cover. 

Price  Oue  Dollar;  or  iu  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Retribution:  A  Tale  of  Passion.  Two  vols., 

paper  cover.    Price  $1.00  ;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
The  Curse  of  Clifton.     Two  vols.,  paper  cover. 

Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  iu  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
The  Discarded  Daughter.      Two  vols.,  paper 

cover.  Price  Oue  Dollar;   or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
The  Deserted  Wife.   Two  volumes,  paper  cover. 

Price  One  Dollar;   or  iu  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
The   Jealous   Husband.     Two   volumes,  paper 

cover.     Price  $1.00  ;  or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Courtship  and  Matrimony.  Two  vols.,  paper 

cover.     PriceOue  Dollar;  or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
The  Belle  of  Washington.      Two  vols.,  paper 

cover.    Price  One  Dollar;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth.  $1.50. 
The  Initials.   ALove  Story.   Two  vols. .paper 

cover.  PriceOue  Dollar;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Kate  Aylesford.      Two  vols.,  paper  cover.     Price 

Oue  Dollar;  or  bound  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
The  Dead  Secret.      Two   volumes,  paper   cover. 
Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  bound  iu  oue  vol..  cloth,  $1.50. 
Hickory  Hall.   By  Mrs.  Sonthworth.    Price  50  cts. 
The  Broken  Engagement.     Price  25  cents. 

MRS.  ASS   S.   STEPHENS'  WORKS. 

The   Heiress.     Two  volumes,  paper  cover.      Price 

One  Dollar  ;  or   in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Mary     Derwent.     Two    volumes,     paper   cover. 

Price  One  Dollar;   or  in  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Fashion    and    Famine.    Two   volumes,    paper 

cover.      Price  $1 .00;  or  in  one  vol.,  clotii,  $1.50. 
The    Old     Homestead.     Two   volumes,    paper 

cover.     PriceOue  Dollar  ;  or  iu  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 


CAROLINE  LEE    HENTZ'S  WORKS. 
The  Planter's  Northern  Bride.    Two  vols., 

paper  cover.     Price  Oue  Dollar;   or  $1.50  in  cloth. 
Linda.     The    Young    Pilot   of   the    Belle 

Creole.     Price  $1.00  iu  paper  ;  or  $1.50  in  cloth. 
Robert    Graham.     The  Sequel  to,  and  Continua- 
tion Of  Linda.    Price  $1.00  iu  paper  ;  or  $1.50  iu  cloth. 
The  Lost  Daughter.    Two  vols.,  paper  cover. 

Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  bound  iu  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Courtship    and    Marriage.     Two  vols.,  paper 

cover.    Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  iu  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Rena  ;  or,  The  Snow  Bird.     Two  vols.,  paper 

cover.     Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Marcus  Warland.     Two  volumes,  paper  cover. 

Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  bound  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Love  after  Marriage.     Two  vols.,  paper  rover. 

Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  iu  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1 .50. 
Tine    Planter's    Daughter.     Two  vols.,  paper 

cover.     Price  One  Dollar;  or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

Eoline:  or,  Magnolia  Vale.   Two  vols,  paper 

cover.     Price  One  Dollar  ;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
The    Banished    Son.    Two  vols.,  paper  cover. 

Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  in  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Helen  and  Arthur.    Two  volumes,  paper  cover. 

Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  iu  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Ernest    Linwood.     Two   volumes,  paper  cover. 

Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  in  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

MRS.  HENRY  WOOD'S  WORKS. 

The  Shadow  of  Ashlydyat.  Two  vols.,  paper 
cover.  Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  iu  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.25. 

Squire   Trevlyn's  Heir.    Two  volumes,  paper 
cover.  Price  One  Dullar ;  orone  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1  25. 

The  Castle's  Heir.     Two  vols  ,  octavo,  paper  co- 
ver. PriceOue  Dollar  ;  oriuone  vol.,  cloth,  for $1.25. 

Venter's  Pride.     Two  vols.,  octavo,  papercover, 
Price  One  Dollar:  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 
We  also  publish  a  "  Kailway  Edition'"  of  the  above, 

each  one  in  one  vol  ,  paper  cover.     Price  One  Dollar. 

The    Earl's    Heirs.     One  volume,  octavo,  paper 
cover.     Price  Fifty  cents  ;  or  oue  vol.,  cloth,  75  cts. 

The     Mystery.      One   vol.,    octavo,   paper  cover. 
Fifty  ceDts  :  or  bound  iu  one  vol.,  cloth,  75  cents. 

A  Life's  Secret.     One  vol.,  octavo,  paper  cover. 
Price  Fifty  cents  ;  or  iu  one  vol.,  cloth,  75  cents. 

The  Channings.     Oue  vol.,  octavo,  paper  cover. 
Price  75  cents  ;  or  iu  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1 .00. 

Aurora   Floyd.     One  vol.,   octavo,    paper  cover. 
Price  50  ceuts;   or  a  liner  edition,  iu  cloth,  for  $1.00. 

Better  for  Worse.    One  volume.    Price  50  cents. 

The  Foggy  Night  at  Offord.     Price  25  ceuts. 
W.   H.    MAXWELL'S    WORKS. 

Stories  of  Waterloo.     One  of  the  best  books  in 

the  English  language.     Oue  vol.     Price  Fifty  ceuts. 
Brian    O'Lynn  ;   or,   Luck  is  Everything.     Com- 
plete in  oue  volume.     Price  50  cents. 

Wild  Sports  in  the  West.    Price  50  cents. 


Copies  of  any  of  the  above  Works  will  be  sent  by  Mail,  Free  of  Postage,  on  Receipt  of  the  Price. 


(3) 


T.   B.  PETERSON  &    BROTHERS'  LIST    OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


MISS    P.VRUOE'S    WORKS. 

Confessions    of   a    Pretty    Woman.       By 

Miss  Paruoe.  Complete  iu  uuo  targe  octavo  volume. 
Price  fifty  ceuts. 

The  Jealous  Wife.  By  Miss  Pardoe.  Complete 
iu  one  large  octavo  volume.     Price  Fifty  cents. 

Tiie  Wife's  Trials.  By  Miss  Pardee.  Com- 
plete iu  oue  large  octavo  volume.     Price  Fifty  ceuts. 

The  Rival  Realities.  By  Miss  Pardee.  Com- 
plete iu  oue  large  octavo  volume.     Price  Fifty  ceuts. 

Romance  of  the  Harem.  By  Miss  Pardee. 
Complete  iu  oue  large  octavo  vol.     Price  fifty  ceuts. 

Miss  Partloe's  Complete  Works.  Thi< 
com/irixen  tlie  whole,  of  the  above  Five  works,  and 
are  boa, id  in  cloth,  gilt,  in  one  large  octavo  volume. 
Prim  $2.50; 

The  Adopted  Heir.  By  Miss  Pardoe.  Two  vols, 
paper.    Pnce  $l.0J ;  or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

CHA.RL.ES    DICKENS'     WORKS. 

ILLUSTRATED    OCTAVO  EDITION. 

Pickwick  Papers.     Oue  vol.,  cloth, $2.00 

Nicholas   Mickleby.     One  vol.,  cloth, 2.00 

Great  Expectations.     One  vol.,  cloth, 2.00 

Lamplighter's  Story.     Oue  vol.,  cloth,....  2.00 

David  Copperfield.  Oue  vol.,  cloth, 2.00 

Oliver  Twist.     Oue  volume,  cloth, 2.00 

Bleak  House.     One  vol.,  cloth, 2.00 

Little  Dorrit.     Oue  vol.,  cloth, 2.00 

Dombey   and  Son.     Oue  vol.,  cloth, 2.00 

Sketches   by   "  Boz."     One  vol.,  cloth 2.00 

Barnaby  Rudge.      One  vol.,  cloth, 2.00 

Martin  Chuzzlewit.     Oue  vol.,  cloth, 2.00 

Old  Curiosity  Shop.     Oue  vol.,  cloth, 2.00 

Christmas  Stories.     Oue  vol.,  cloth, 2.00 

Dickens'  New  Stories.  One  vol.,  cloth,....  2.00 
A  Tale  of  Two  Cities.  One  vol.,  cloth,....  2.00 
American  Notes  and  Pic-Nic  Papers.  2.00 

Price  of  a  set,  in  Black  cloth,  in  17  volumes $32.00 

'•  "         Full  Law  Library  style 42  00 

"  "         Ila'f  calf,  or  Half  Turkey 4S.00 

"  "         Half  calf,  marbled  edges  50.00 

"  "        Half  calf,  antique 60.00 

"  "        Half  calf,  full  gilt  backs,  etc 60.00 

PEOPLE'S  DUODECIMO  EDITION. 

Pickwick   Papers.     Oue  vol,  cloth, $1.7") 

Nicholas   Nickleby.     One  vol.,  cloth,..  1.75 

Great  Expectations.     One  vol.,  cloth, 1.7.5 

Lamplighter's  Story.     One  vol.,  cloth,....  1.75 

David  Copperfield.     One  vol.,  cloth 1.75 

Oliver  Twist.     One  vol.,  cloth. 1.75 

Bleak   House.     Oue  vol.,  cloth 1.7.5 

Little   Dorrit.     One  vol.,  cloth, 1.75 

Dombey  and    Sou.     One  vol.,  cloth 1.75 

Christmas  Stories.     One  vol.,  cloth, 1.75 

Sketches  by  "Boz/'     One  vol.,  cloth, 1.75 

Barnaby  Kudge.     Que  vol.,  cloth, 1.7.5 

Martin    Chuzzlewit.     One  vol.,  cloth, 1.75 

Old   Curiosity,  Shop.     One  vol.,  cloth, 1.75 

A  Tale  of  Two  Ciiies.  One  vol.,  cloth,...  1.7.5 
Dickens' New  Stories.  One  vol..  cloth,...  1.50 
Dickens'  Short  Stories.  One  vol.,  cloth,  1.50 
Message  from  the  Sea.     One  vol.,  cloth,...  1.50 

Price  of  a  set,  in  Black  cloth,  in  17  volumes $29  00 

"  "         Full  Law  Library  stvle  3-5.00 

"  "         Half  calf,  or  Half  Turkey 42  00 

"  "         Half  calf,  marbled  edges. 44.00 

"  "         Half  calf,  antique. 5000 

"  "         Half  calf,  full  nilt  backs,  etc 50  00 

"  "         Full  calf,  antique  60.00 

"  "  Full  calf,  gilt  edges,  backs,  etc..  60.00 


CHARLES  DICKENS'   WORKS. 

DUODECIMO  ILLUSTRATED  EDITION. 

Pickwick  Papers.     Two  vols.,  cloth, 3.00 

A  Tale  of  Two  Cities.     Two  vols.,  cloth,..  3.00 

Nicholas  Nickleby.     Two  vols.,  cloth 3.00 

David   Copperfield.     Two  vols.,  cloth, 3.00 

Oliver  Twist.     Two  volumes,  cloth, 3  (-0 

Christmas  Stories.    Two  volumes,  cloth,..  3  00 

Bleak  House.    Two  volumes,  cloth, 3  00 

Little   Dorrit.     Two  volumes,  cloth, 3.00 

Dombey  and  Son.     Two  volumes,  cloth, 3.00 

Sketches  by    "Boz."   Two  volumes,  cloth,  3.00 

Barnaby   Rudge.     Two  volumes,  cloth,  3.00 

Martin  Chuzzlewit.    Two  vols.,  cloth, 3.00 

Old  Curiosity   Shop.     Two  vols.,  cloth, 3.00 

Great  Expectations.  Oue  vol.,  cloth, 1.75 

Lamplighter's  Story.  One  vol.,  cloth,....  1.75 
Dickens'  New  Stories.  One  vol.,  cloth,...  1.75 
Message  from  the   Sea.     Oue  vol.,  cloth,..  1.75 

Price  of  a  set,  in  Thirty  volumes,  bound  in 

Black  cloth,  gilt  backs $45.00 

"  "         Full  Law  Library  stvle 55.00 

"  "         Half  calf.anlique 90.00 

Half  calf,  full  gilt  back 90  00 

"        Full  calf,  autique 100.00 

"  "         Full  calf,  gilt  edges,  backs,  etc.  100.00 

CHEAP  EDITION,  PAPER  COVER. 
This  edition  is  published   complete  in  Twenty-two 
lari;e  octavo  volumes,  iu  paper  cover,  as  follows.   Price 
Fifty  cents  a  volume. 
Pickwick  Papers. 

Great  Expectations. 

A  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 
New  Years'  Stories. 
Barnaby  Rudge. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop. 
Little  Dorrit. 
David  Copperfield. 

Sketches   by  "Boz." 

Dickens'  New  Stories. 
American  Notes. 
Oii  sir  Twist. 

Lamplighter's  Story. 
Dombey  and  Son. 
Nicholas  Nickleby. 
Holiday  Stories. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit. 
Bleak  House. 

Dickens'  Short  Stories. 
Message  from  the  Sea. 
Christmas   Stories. 
Pic-Nic  Papers. 

LIBRARY  OCTAVO  EDITION.     IN  7  VOLUMES. 
This  edition  is  in  SEVEN  very  large  octavo  volumes, 
with  a  Portrait  ou  steel  of  Charles  Dickeus.  and  bound 
in  the  following  vari  us  styles. 
Price  of  a  set,  in  Black  Cloth,  in  seven  volumes, .$',4  00 

'.'  "  Scarlet  cloth, extra, '..   15  0) 

"  Law  Library  style 17. -i0 

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"  "  Halfcalf,  marbled  edges, 21.01 

"  Half  calf,  antique ". ii    n 

"  "  Half  calf,  (full  gilt  backs,  etc 2.5.00 

DR.    HOLLICK'S    WORKS. 

Dr.  Hollick's  Anatomy  and  Physiology  ; 

•with   a  large  Dissected   Plate  of  the  Human  Figure. 
Price  One   Dollar  and  Twenty-Five  cents,  bound. 
Dr.  Hollick's  Family  Physician.    A  Pocket 
Guide  for  Evervbody.     Price  25  cents. 


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T.  B.  PETERSON   &   BROTHERS'  LIST    OF  PUBLICATIONS, 


CHARLES    LEVER'S    WORKS. 

Fine  Edition,  hound  separately. 

diaries  O'Malley,  fine  edition,  cloth, $1.50 

Hurry  Lorrtquer,  fine  edition,  cloth, 1.50 

•Jack.  1 1  i  ni  on.  fine  edition,  cloth, 1.50 

Davenport  Dunn,  fine  edition,  cloth, 1.50 

Tom  Burke  of  Ours,  fine  edition,  cloth,....  1.50 

Arthur  O'Lenry,  fine  edition,  cloth, 1.50 

Com  Cregan,  fine  edition,  cloth, 1.50 

Knight  of  Gwynne,  fine  edition,  cloth, 1.50 

Valentine  Vox,  fine  edition,  cloth, 1.50 

Ten  Thousand  a   Year,  fine  edition,  one 
volume,  cloth, 1.50 

CHARLES  LEVERS  NOVELS. 

All  neatly  done  up  in  paper  covers. 

Charles  O'Malley, Price  50  cents. 

Harry    Lorrequer, 50      " 

Horace    Teinpleton, 50      " 

Tom    Burke  of  Ours, 50      " 

Arthur   O'Leary, 50      " 

Jack    Hinton,  the  Guardsman,..    50      " 

The  Knight  of  Givymie, 50      " 

Kate    O'Donoghue, 50      " 

Con  Cregan,  the  Irish  Gil  Bias,     50      " 

Davenport   Dunn, 50      " 

LIBRARY  EDITION. 
THIS  EDITION  is  complete  in  FIVE  large  octavo 
volumes,  containing  Charles  O'Malley,  Hurry  Lorre- 
quer,  Horace  Teinpleton,  Tom  Burke  of  Ours,  Arthur 
O'Leary.  Jack  Hinton  the  Guardsman,  The  Knight  of 
Gwynne,  Kate  O'Donoghue,  etc.,  handsomely  printed, 
and  bound  in  various  styles,  as  wllows  : 

Price  of  a  set  in  Black  cloth, $7.50 

"  "         Scarlet  cloth, S.OO 

"  "        Law  Library  sheep S.75 

"  "        Half  Call',...". 12.00 

"  "        Half  Calf,  marbled  edges, 12.50 

"  "        Half  Calf,  antique 15.00 

SAMCEL  C.  WARRM'S  BOOKS. 
Ten  Thousand  a  Year.     Complete  in  two  vol- 
umes,   paper   cover.     Price   One    Dollar;  or  a  finer 
edition,  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Diary  of  a  Medical   Student.     By  author  of 
"Ten  Thousand  a  Year."     Price  50  cents. 

EMERSON  BENNETT'S  WORKS. 
The  Border  Rover.  Fine  editiou  bound  in  cloth, 

for $1.50;  or  Railroad  Edition  for  One  Dollar. 
Clara  Moreland.  Fine  edition  bound  in  cloth,  for 

$1.50;  or  Railroad  Editiou  for  Oue  Dollar. 
Viola.     Fine  editiou  bouud  in  cloth,  for  $1.50;  or 

Railroad  Edition  for  Oue  Dollar. 
The  Forged  Will.    Fine  edition  bound  in  cloth, 

for  $1.50  ;  or  Railroad  Editiou  for  Oue  Dollar. 
Ellen  Norhury.    Fine  editiou  bound  in  cloth,  for 

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in  cloth,  for  $1.50  ;  or  Railroad  Editiou  for  $1.00. 
Kate   Clarendon.     Fine  edition  bound  in  cloth, 

for  $1.50;  or  Railroad  Editiou  lor  One  Dollar. 
Heiress  of  Bellefonte  «fc  Wahle-Warren. 

Cheap  edition,  paper  cover.     Price  50  cents. 
Pioneer's  Daughter  ;    and  the  Vnknown 

Countess.     Cheap  edition,  paper  cover.    50  cents. 

DOESTICKS'     BOOKS. 

Doesticks'  Letters.    Complete  in  two  vols.,  paper 

cover.    Price  One  Dollar;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

Plu-ri-bus-tah.  Complete  in  two  vols.,  paper 
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The  Elephant  Club.  Complete  in  two  vols., 
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AVli.cheS  of  Sew  York.  Complete  in  two  vols., 
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Nothing  to  Say.     Illustrated.     Price  50  cents. 


WILKIE  COLLINS'   GREAT   WORKS. 

The  Dead  Secret.  One  volume,  octavo,  paper 
cover.  Price  fifty  cents;  or  bound  in  oue  vol, 
cloth,  for  75  cents  ;  or  a  fine  12mo.  edition,  in  two 
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in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Crossed  Patli ;  or,  Basil.  Two  vols., 
paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  in  one  vol  , 
cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Hide    and     Seek.     One  vol.,  octavo,  paper  cover. 

Price  fifty  cents;  or  bound  in  oue  vol.,  for  75  cents. 
After  Dark.   Oue  vol.,  octavo,  paper  cover.    Price 

fifty  cents  ;    or  one  vol.,  bouud  in  cloth,  for  75  cents. 
Sights  Afoot ;  or  Travels  Beyond  Railways.     Una 

volume,  octavo,  paper  cover.     Price  50  cents. 
The  Stolen  Mask.    Price  2.3  cents. 
Sister  Rose.    Price  25  cents. 
The  Yellow  Mask.    Price  25  cents. 

COOK    BOOKS. 

Petersons'  Mew  Cook  Book;  or  Useful  Re- 
ceipts fur  the  Housewife  and  the  Uninitiated.  Full 
of  valuable  receipts,  all  original  and  never  before 
published,  all  of  which  will  be  found  to  be  very  valu- 
able aud  of  daily  use.   Oue  vol.,  bound.   Price  $1.50. 

Miss  Leslie's  New  Cookery  Book.  Being 
her  last  new  book.    Oue  volume,  bouud.    Price  $1.50. 

Widdineld's  New  Cook  Book;  or.  Practical 
Receipts  fur  the  Housewife.     Cloth.     Price  $1.25. 

Mrs.  Hale's  New  Cook  Book.  By  Mrs.  Sarah 
J.  Hale.     One  volume,  bouud.     Price  $1.25. 

Miss  Leslie's  NewReeeipts  for  Cooking. 
Complete  in  one  volume,  bound.     Price  $1.25. 

MRS.   HALE'S    RECEIPTS. 
Mrs.    Hale's    Receipts    for    tire    Million.. 

Containing  4515    Receipts.     By   Mrs.  Sarah    J.   Hale. 
One  vol,,  S00  pages,  strongly  bound.     Price,  $1.50. 

MISS    LESLIE'S    BEHAVIOUR    BOOK 

Miss  Leslie's  Behaviour  Book.  A  complete. 
Guide  aud  Manual  for  Ladies.     Price  $1.50. 

FRANCATELLI'S  FRENCH  COOK. 
Francatelli's  Celebrated  French  took 
Book.  The  Modern  Cook.  A  Practical  Guide 
to  the  Culinary  Art,  in  all  its  branches  ;  comprising, 
in  addition  to  English  Cookery,  the  most  approved 
and  recherche  systems  of  French,  Italian,  and  German 
Cookery;  adapted  as  well  for  the  largest  establish- 
ments, as  for  the  use  of  private  families.  By 
CHARLES  ELME  FRANCATELLI,  pupil  to  the  cele- 
brated Cakeme,  and  late  Maitre-d'H.  tel  and  Chief 
Cook  to  her  Majesty,  the  Queen  of  England.  With 
Sixty-Two  Illustrations  of  various  dishes.  Reprinted 
from  the  Ninth  Lundon  Edition,  carefully  revised  and 
considerably  enlarged.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo 
volume  of  Six  Hundred  pages,  strongly  bouud,  and 
jointed  on  the  fiuest  double  super-Calendered  paper. 
Price  Three  Dollars  a  copy. 

J.  A.  MAITLAND'S  GREAT  AVORKS. 
The  Three  Cousins.     By  .1.  A.  Maitland.     Two 

vols.,  paper.   Price  $1.00  ;   or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Watchman.  Complete  in  two  large  vols., 
paper  cover.  Price  $1.00  ;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Wanderer.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper 
cover.     Price  $1.00;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  lor$1.50. 

The  Diary  of  an  Old  Doctor.  Two  vols  ,  pa- 
per cover.     Price  $1.00;   or  bound  in  cloth  for  $1  50. 

The  Lawyer'si  Story.  Two  volumes,  paper  co- 
ver.    Price  $1.00;  or  bound  in  cloth  for  $1.60. 

Sartaroe.     A    Tale   of  Norway.     Two  vo 
paper  cover.     Price  $1.00;  or  in  cloth  for  $1.50. 

MRS.  DANIELS'  GREAT  WORKS. 

Marrying  for  Money.     Oue  vol.,  octavo,  paper 
cover.      Price  fifty  cents  ;  or  one  vol..  cloth,  75  cents 
The  Poor  Cousin.     Price  50  cents. 
Kate  Walsingham.     Price  50  cents. 


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T.  B.  PETERSON   &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


ALEXANDER    DUMAS'    WORKS. 
Count  of  Monte-Cristo.    By  AlexauderDumas. 

Beautifully  illustrated.     Oue  volume,  cloth,  $1.00  ; 

oi'  iu  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  for  Oue  Dollar. 
The     Conscript.      Two    volumes,    paper    cover. 

Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  iu  oue  volume,  clotli,  for  $1.50. 
Camillc;  or  the   Camella  Lady.    The  only 

gom-eot  Translation  from  the  Original  French.    Two 

volumes,  paper,  price  Oue  Dollar;  or  iu  cloth,  $1.50. 
The    Three    Guardsmen.    Price    75  cents,  iu 

paper  cover,  or  a  finer  edition  in  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Twenty   Years  After.     A  Sequel  to  the  "  Three 

Guardsmen."     Price  75  ceuts,   in  paper  cover,  or  a 

finer  edition,  iu  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Bragrlounr  ;    the   Son  of  Athos  :  being  the 

continuation   of  "Twenty   Years   After."     Price    75 

cents,  in  paper,  or  a  liuer  edition,  iu  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
The  Iron  Mask.     Being  the  continuation  of  the 

"Three  Guardsmen. "  Two  vols.,  paper  cover.  Price 

One  Dollar;  or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Louise  La  "Valliere  ;  or,  The  Second  Series  and 

eud  of  the  "  Iron  .Mask."  Two  volumes,  paper  cover. 

Price  One  Dollar;  or  bouud  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Memoirs  of  a  Physician.  Beautifully 
Illustrated.  Two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  Oue 
Dollar  ;  or  bouud  in  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Queen's  Necklace.  A  Sequel  to  the  "  Me- 
moirs of  a  Physician."  Two  vols,  paper  cover. 
Price  One  Dollar  ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Six  Years  Laler ;  or,  Taking  of  the  Bastile.  A  Con- 
tinuation of  "The  Queen's  Necklace."  Two  vols., 
paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  in  one  vol., 
cloth,  lor  $1.50. 

Countess  of  Charily  ;  or,  The  Fall  of  the  French 
Monarchy.  Sequel  to  Six  Years  Later.  Two  vols., 
paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar ;  or  in  oue  volume, 
cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Andree  de  Taverney.  A  Sequel  to  and  conti- 
nuation of  the  Countess  of  Charny.  Two  volumes, 
pnper.     Price  $1.00;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Chevalier.  A  Sequel  to,  and  final  end  of 
"  Andree  De  Taverney."     Oue  vol.     Price  75  ceuts. 

The  Adveniures  of  a  Marquis.  Two  vols., 
paper  cover.  Price  Oue  Dollar;  or  in  one  vol., 
cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Forty-Five  Guardsmen.  Price  75  rents, 
or  a  finer  edition  in  one  volume,  cloth.     Price  $1.50. 

The  Iron  Hand.  Price  7.i  cents,  in  paper  cover, 
or  a  finer  edition  iu  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Diana  of  Meridor.  Two  volumes,  paper  cover. 
Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  in  one  vol  ,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Ed  mo  m!     Dailies.     Beins:   a   Sequel    to    Dumas' 
celebrated    novel  of   the    "Count  of  Monte-Cristo. " 
One  volume.     Price  50  cents. 
'Annette;   or,    The    Lady   of   the    Pearls. 
,     A  Companion  to  "  Cainille."     Price  50  ceuts. 

The  Fallen  Angel.  A  Story  of  Love  and  Life 
iu  Paris.    One  volume.     Price  50  cents. 

The  Man  with  Five  "Wives.  Complete  in 
one  volume.    Price  50  cents. 

George  ;  or.  The  Planter  of  the  Isle  of 
France.    Oue  volume.     Price  Fifty  ceuts. 

Genevieve;  or,  The  Chevalier  of  Maison  Rouge. 
One   volume.     Illustrated.     Price  50  ceuts. 

The  Mohicans  of  Paris.     Price  50  cents. 

Sketches  in  France.     One  vol.     Price  50  cents. 

Isahel  of  Bavaria.     One  vol.     Price  50  cents. 

Felina  de  Chambure;  or,  The  Female  Fiend. 
Price  50  ceuts. 

The  Horrors  of  Paris.     One  vol.     Price  .Wets, 
The  Twin  Lieutenants.    One  vol.  Price  50  cts. 
The  Corsicau  Brothers.     Price  25  cents. 
COINS    OF     THE    WOULD. 

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and  other  Metallic  Coins,  throughout  the  World, 
near  Two  Thousand  in  all.  being  the  most  complete 
Coin  Book  in  the  World,  frith  the  United  States  Mint 
Value  of  each  Coin  under  it.     Price  $1.00. 


FRANK    E.     SMEDLEY'S     WORKS. 

Harry  Coverdale's  Courlship  ami  Mar- 
riage. Two  vols.,  paper.  Price- $1.00;  or  cloth,$1.60. 

Lorriiner  Littlegood.  By  author  of  "Frank 
Fairlegh."  Two  vols.,  paper.  Price  $1  ;  or  cloth.  $1.30. 

Frank  Fairleigh.  One  volume,  cloth,  $1.50  ;  or 
cheap  edition  iu  paper  cover,  for  70  ceuts. 

Lewis  Arundel.  Oue  vol.,  cloth.  Price  $1.50  ; 
or  cheap  edition  iu  paper  cover,  for  75  ceuts. 

Fortunes  and  Misfortunes  of  Harry 
Racket  Scapegrace.  Cloth.  Price  $1.50  ;  or 
cheap  edition  in  paper  cover,  for  50  cents. 

Tom  Racquet  ;  and  His  Three  Maiden  Auuts 
Full  of  beautiful  illustrations.     Price  50  ceuts. 

MISS   BREMER'S   NEW   WORKS. 

The  Father  and  Daughter.  By  Fredrika  Bre- 
mer.   Two  vols.,  paper.    Price  $1.00  ;  or  cloth,  $1.5(1. 

The  Four  Sisters.  Two  vols.,  paper  cover. 
Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  iu  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Neighbors.  Two  vols.,  paper  cover.  Price 
Oue  Dollar  ;  or  in  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Home.  Two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price 
Oue  Dollar;   or  iu  oue  volume,  clotn,  for  $1.50. 

Life  in  the  Old  World;  or,  Two  Years  iu 
Switzerland  aud  Italy.  Complete  in  two  large  duo- 
decimo volumes,  of  near  1000  pages.     Price  $o.u0. 

GREEN'S  WORKS  ON  GAMBLING. 

Gambling  Exposed.  By  J.  H.  Green,  the  He- 
formed  Gambler.  Two  vols.,  paper  cover.  Price 
$1.00;  or  iu  oue  volume,  cloth,  gilt,  for  $1.50. 

The  Gambler's  Life.  Two  vols.,  paper  cover. 
Price  Oue  Dollar ;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  gilt,  for  $1.50 

Secret  Band  of  Brothers.  Two  vols.,  paper 
cover.     Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  in  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Reformed  Gambler.  Two  vols.,  paper. 
Price  Oue  Dollar  ;  or  in  oue  vol  ,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

MRS.  GREY'S  SEW  BOOKS. 
Little    Beauty.    Two  vols.,  paper  cover.     Price 

One  Dollar  ;  or  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Cousin    Harry.     Two   vols.,  paper  cover.     Price 

One  Dollar;  or  in  oue  volume,  cloth,  for $(.50. 
The    Flirt.      One   volume,    octavo,    paper    cover. 

Price  Fifty  cents  ;  or  iu  oue  vol.,  cloth,  for  75  ceuts. 

MRS.    GREY'S    POPULAR    NOVELS. 

Price  Twenty-Five  Cents  each. 
Gipsy's  Daughter.         Baronet's  Daugh- 
Lena  Cameron.  ters. 

Belle  of  the  Family.      The  Young  Prima 
Sybil  Lennai-d.  Donna. 

Duke   and  Cousin.         Alice   Seymour. 
The   Little  Wife.  Hyacinthe. 

The     Manoeuvring        Passion  &.  Princi- 

Mother.  pie.     50  ceuts. 

Old  Dower  House.  Mary  Seaham.    50c. 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES'S  NEW  BOOKS. 
The  Cavalier.     An   Historical  Komauce.     With  a 

steel  portrait  of  the  author.     Two  vols.,  paper  cover. 

Price  One  Dollar  ;  or  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Lord    Montagu's    Page.     Two   volumes,  paper 

cover    Price  One  Dollar  ;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
The   Man  in  Black.     Price  50  cents. 
Arrah  Neil.     A  Novel.     Price  50  cents. 
Mary  of  Burgundy.     Price  50  cents. 
Eva  St.  Clair;  and  other  Tales.     Price  25  cents. 

MISS  ELLEN  PICKERING'S  WORKS. 

Price   Tiiirtt/-Eifflit  Cents-  each. 

Who  Shall  be  Heir  1     Ellen   Wareham. 

The   Secret   Foe.  Nan   Barrel. 

The  Expectant.  Prince  &  Pedlar. 

|    The    Flight.  The  Grumbler.  50c. 

I    Quiet    Husband.  Orphan    Niece.  50  c. 

I    Merchant's  Daughter.     The  Squire. 


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T.   B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


MILITARY  NOVELS. 
By    Lever,    Dumas    and    other    Authors. 

With  Illuminated  Military  Covers,  in  Colors. 

Published  aiid  for  sale  at  wholesale,  by  the  dozen, 
huudred,  or  thousand,  at  very  low  rates. 

Their  Names  are  as  Follows  : 
Charles  O'Malley,  The  Irish  Dragoon,  Price    50 

Jack Hintan,  the  Guardsman 50 

The  Knight  of  Gwynne 50 

Harry  Lorrcquer 50 

Tom  Burke  of  Ours 50 

Arthur   O'Leary  50 

Cou  Cregan's  Adventures 60 

Kate  O  Donoghue 50 

Horace  Templeton  50 

Davenport   Ounn  50 

The  Conscript.     Two  vols.,  each 50 

Following  the   Drum  50 

Valentine  Vox.     By  Harry  Coekton 50 

Twin  Lieutenants 50 

Stories  of  Waterloo  50 

The  Soldier  s  Wife 60 

Guerilla  Chief 50 

The  Three  Guardsmen 75 

Twenty  Years  After  75 

Bragelonne,  the  Son  of  Athos 75 

Wallace,  Hero  of  Scotland 75 

Forty-five  Guardsmen 75 

The  Quaker  Soldier.     Two  vols.,  each 50 

Sutlers  in  the  Army,  Pedlars  and  Canvassers,  can 
sell  thousands  of  the  above  works,  all  of  which  are 
published  with  Illuminated  Military  covers,  in  colors, 
making  them  the  most  attractive  books  ever  printed. 

REYNOLDS'   GREAT  WORKS. 
Mysteries     of    the    Court      of       London. 

Complete  in  one  large  vol.,  bound  in  cloth,  for  $1.50 ; 
or  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar. 

Rose  Foster  ;  or,  "The  Second  Series  of  the  Myste- 
ries of  the  Court  of  London."  1  vol.,  cloth.  $2.00  ; 
or  iu  three  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  $1.50. 

Caroline  of  Brunswick;  or,  the  "Third  Se- 
ries of  the  Mysteries  of  the  Court  of  London.*'  Com- 
plete iu  one  large  vol.,  bound  iu  cloth.  For  $1.50;  or 
iu  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar. 

Venetia  Trelawney  ;  being  the  "Fourth  Series. 
or  liual  conclusion  of  the  Mysteries  of  the  Court  of 
London. "  Complete  in  one  vol.,  in  cloth,  for  $1.50; 
or  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  due  Dollar. 

Lord  Saxondale;  or,  The  Court  of  Queen  Victo- 
ria. Complete  in  one  large  vol.,  cloth,  l'or$l  50;  or 
in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar. 

Count  Christ  oval.  The  "Sequel  to  Lord  Saxon- 
dale." Complete  iu  one  vol.,  bound  in  cloth,  for  $1.50  ; 
Or  iu  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  Oue  Dollar. 

Rosa  Lambert.  ;  or.  The  Memoirs  of  an  Unfortu- 
nate Woman.  One  vol.,  bound  iu  cloth,  for  $1.50  ;  or 
in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar. 

Mary  Price  ;  or,  The  Adventures  of  a  Servant-Maid. 
Complete  in  one  vol.,  bound  in  cloth,  for $1.50  ;  or  in 
two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar. 

Eustace  Quentin.  A  "  Sequel  to  Mary  Price."' 
Complete  in-one  large  vol.,  bound  in  cloth,  tor  $1.50  ; 
or  iu  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar. 

•Joseph  "Wilmot  ;  or,  The  Memoirs  of  a  Man-Ser- 
vant. Complete  iu  one  vol.,  bound  in  cloth,  for$J  .50  ; 
or  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  Oue  Dollar. 

The  Banker's  Daughter.  A  Sequel  to  "  Jo- 
seph Wilmot."  Complete  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50; 
>>r  iu  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar. 

Kenneth.  A  Romance  of  the  Highlands.  Complete 
in  one  large  volume,  bound  in  cloth,  for  $1,50;  or  in 
two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar. 

The  Rye-House  Plot  ;  or,  Ruth,  the  Conspira- 
tor's Daughter.  One  volume,  bound  in  cloth,  for 
$1.50;  or  iu  two  vols  .  paper  cover.  priceOm1  Dollar. 


REYNOLDS'  GREAT  "WORKS. 

The    Necromancer.     A  Romance  of  the  Times 

of  Henry  the  liighth.     One  vol.,  bouud  iu  cloth,  for 

$1 .50  ;  or  in  two  vols.,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar. 

The     Opera     Dancer;      or,    The   Mysteries    of 

London  Life.     Complete  in  one  vol.     Price 50  cents. 
The    Ruined    Gamester.     With    Illustrations. 
Complete  in  ono  large  octavo  vol.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
Wallace:    the  Hero  of  Scotland.     Illustra- 
ted with  Thirty-eight  plates.     Price  75  cents. 
The    Child    of  "Waterloo;   or,  The  Horrors  of 
the  Battle  Field.    Complete  in  oue  vol.    Price  50  cents. 
The  Countess   and  the  Page.     Complete  in 

one  large  volume.     Price  50  cents. 
Ciprina  ;    or,   The   Secrets  of   a   Picture 

Gallery.     Complete  in  one  vol.     Price  50  cents. 
Robert  Bruce  :  the   Hero  King  of  Scot- 
land, with  his  Portrait.     Oue  vol.     Price  50  cents. 
Isabella    Vincent;    or,  The  Two  Orphans.     One 

volume,  paper  cover.     Price  50  cents. 
Vivian  Bertram  ;  or,  A  Wife's  Honor.     A  Sequel 

to  "Isabella  Vincent."     Oue  vol.     Price 50 cents. 
The  Countess  of  Lascelles.   The  Continuation 

to  "  Vivian  Bertram."     Oue  vol.     Price  50  cents. 
Duke   of  Marchmont.     Being   the  Conclusion 

of  "  The  Countess  of  Lascelles."     Price  Fifty  cents. 
Gipsy    Chief.     Beautifully  Illustrated.      Complete 

in  oue  large  octavo  volume.     Price  75  cents. 
Pickwick  Abroad.     A  Companion  to  the  "Pick- 
wick Papers,"  by  "  BOZ."     One  vol.     Price  50  cents. 
Q,ueen  Joanna;  or,  the  Mysteries  of  the 

Court    of  Naples.     Price  50  cents. 
Mary  Stuart,  Queen  of  Scots.     Complete  im 

on"  large  octavo  volume.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
May   Middleton  ;  or,  The   History  of  a   Fortuna. 

Price  50  cents. 
The  Loves  of  the  Harem.    Price  50  cents. 
The  Discarded  Queen.     One  vol.     50  cents. 
Ellen  Percy  ;  or,  Memoirs  of  Actress.    Price  50  cts. 
Massacre   of  Glencoe.     Price  50  cents. 
Agnes  Evelyn  ;  or,  Beauty  and  Pleasure.     50  cts. 
The   Parricide.     Beautifully  Illustrated.     50  cts. 
Life  in  Paris.     Handsomely  Illustrated.     50  cts. 
The    Soldier's   Wife.    Illustrated.    50  cents. 
Clifford  and  the   Actress.      Price  Fifty  cent*. 
Edgar  Montrose.     One  volume.     Price  25  cents. 
T.    S.    ARTHUR'S    BEST    WORKS. 
Price  Tioenhi-Five  Cents  each 
The  Lady  at  Home. 
Year   after    Marriage. 
Cecilia    Howard. 
Orphan  Children. 
Love  in  High  Life. 
Debtor's    Daughter* 
Agnes;   or.  The  Possessed. 
Love   in  a  Cottage. 
Mary  Moreton. 

The    Divorced    Wife. 
The  Two  Brides. 
Lucy  Sandford. 
The  Banker's  Wife. 
The    Two  Merchants. 
Insubordination. 

Trial  and   Triumph. 
The  Iron  Rule. 
Pride    and  Prudence. 
Lizzie  Glenn  ;   or,  The  Trials  of  a  Seam- 
stress.    By  T.   S.   Arthur.     Oue    vol.,  cloth,   gilt. 
Price  $1.50,  or  in  two  vols,,  paper  cover,  for  $1.00. 

J.  E.  SMITH'S  WORKS. 

Thomas  Balscombe;  or  the  Usurer's  Vic- 
tim.    One  volume,  octavo.     Price  50  cents. 

Adelaide  Wnldg'ave  ;  or  the  Trials  of  a  Go- 
vriio-s.     One  volume,  octavo.     Price  50  cents. 


Copies  of  any  of  the  above  Works  will  be  sent  by  Mail,  Free  of  Postage,  on  receipt  of  the  Price. 


8        T.  B.   PETERSON    &   BROTHERS'   LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 


WAVERLEY     NOVELS. 

The  Wavcrlcy  Novels.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
With  it  magnificent  PoKrait  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  en- 
graved from  the  last  Portrait  for  which  he  ever  sat, 
at  Ahbottsford,  with  his  Autograph  under  it.  This 
edition  is  complete  in  Five  large  octavo  volumes,  with 
handsomely  engraved  steel  Title  Pages  to  each  vol- 
ume, the  whole  beiug  neatly  and  handsomely  bound 
ju  cloth.  This  is  the  cheapest  and  most  complete  and 
perfect  edition  of  the  Waverley  Novels  published  iu 
the  world,  as  it  contains  all  the  Author's  last  addi- 
tions and  corrections.     Price  Ten  Dollars  a  set. 

CHEAP  EDITION  IN  PAPER  COVER. 

This  edition  is  published   in  Tweuty-Six  volumes, 

paper  cover,  price  thirty-eight  cents  each,  or  the  whole 

twenty-six  volumes,  will  be  sold  or  sent  to  any  one, 

free  of  postage,  fur  Eight  Dollars. 

Tlie  following  are  thtir  names. 
Ivan  hoe,  St.  Ronan's  Well, 

Rob  Roy,  Red  Gauntlet, 

Guy  Mannering,  The  Talisman, 

Tile  Antiquary,  Woodstock, 

Old  Mortality,  Highland    Widow, 

Waverley,  Fair    Maid  Perth, 

Kenilworth,  Fortunes  of  Nigel, 

The  Pirate,  P«-  veril  of  the  Peak, 

The  Monastery,  Quentin  Durward, 

The  Abbot,  Anne  of  Geicrstein, 

The  Betrothed,  Moredun.     50  cts. 

The  Heart  of  Mid  Lothian, 
The  Bride  of  Lammermoor, 
Tales  of  a  Grandfather, 

Count  Robert   of  Paris,  [ter, 

Castle  Dangerous,  and  Surgeon'  Daugh- 
Black  Dwarf  and  Legend  of  Montrose. 
Lockhari's  Life  of  Scott,  cloth.     Price  $1.50. 

PROSE   AND  POETICAL  WORKS. 

We  also  publish  Sir  Walter  Scott's  complete  Prose 
and  Poetical  Works,  iu  ten  large  octavo  volumes,  bound 
in  cloth.  This  edition  coutaius  every  thing  ever  writ- 
ten by  Sir  Walter  Scott.     Price  Twenty  Dollars  a  set. 

C.  J.    PETERSON'S    WORKS. 

KJate  Aylesford.  A  Love  Story.  Two  vols., 
paper.     Price  $1.00  ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Old  Stone  Mansion.  By  Charles  J.  Pe- 
terson.  Two  vols.,  paper.  Pnce$1.00;  or  cloth,  $1 .50. 

Cruising  iu  the  Last  War.  By  Charles  J. 
Peterson.     Complete  iu  one  volume.     Price  50  cents. 

The  Valley  Farm  ;  or.  The  Autobiography  of  an 
Orphan.     A  Companion  to  Jaue  Eyre.    Price  25  cents. 

Grace  Dudley  ;  or,  Arnold  at  Saratoga.    25  cents. 

Mabel;  or.  Darkness  and  Dawn.  Two  vols.,  paper 
cover.     Price  $1.00 ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.50.     {In  Press.) 

EUGENE    SUE'S   GREAT   NOVELS. 

Illustrated  Wandering  .Tew.  With  Eighty- 
seven  large  Illustrations.  Two  vols.,  paper  cover. 
Price  $1.00;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Mysteries  of  Paris  ;  and  Gerolstein,  the 
Sequel  to  it.  Two  vols  .  paper  cover.  Price  $1.00  ; 
or  i  u  one  vol.,  cloth,  for$1.50. 

Martin  the  Foundling.  Beautifully  Illustra- 
ted. Two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar  ; 
or  In  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1  50. 

First  Love.     A  Story  of  the  Heart.     Price  25  cents. 

Woman's  Love.     Illustrated.     Price  25  cents. 

The  Man-of-War's-Man.     Price  25 cents. 

The  Female    Bluebeard.     Price  25  cents. 

Raoul  De  Surville.     Price  25  cents. 


HUMOROUS    AMERICAN    WORKS. 

Original  Illustrations  by  D.irlry  and  Others. 

Done  up  in  Illuminated  Covers. 

Major     Jones'     Courtship.       With    Thirteen 

illustrations,  from  designs  by  Darley.     Price  50  cts. 
Drama  la    Pokerville.    By  ,T.  M.  Field      With. 

Illustrations  by  Darley.      Price  Fifty  cents. 
Louisiana     Swamp    Doctor.    By   author   of 

"  Cupping  on  the  Sternum."     Illustrated  hy  Darley. 

Price  50  cents. 
Charcoal  Sketches.     By  Joseph  C.  Neal.    With 

Illustrations.     Price  50  cents. 

Yankee    Amongst  the  Mermaids.     By  W. 

E.  Burton.     With  Illustrations  by  Darley.    50  cents. 
Misfortunes  of    Peter  Faber.  By  Joseph  C. 

Neal.     With  Illustrations  by  Darley.     Price  50  cents. 
Major  .Tones'   Sketches  of  Travel.      With 

Illustrations,  from  designs  by  Darley.    Price  50  cents. 
Quarter     Race    in    Kentucky.     By  W.  T. 

Porter,  Esq.     With  Illustrations  by  Darley.  *50  cents. 
Sol.  Smith's  Theatrical  Apprenticeship. 

Illustrated  by  Darley.     Price  Fifty  Cents. 
Yankee      Yarns     and     Yankee     Letters. 

By  Sam  Slick,  alias  Judge  Haliburton.     Price  50  cts. 
Life  and    Adventures    of   Col.    Vander- 

bomb.     By  author  of  "  Wild  Western  Scenes,"  etc. 

Price  50  cents. 
Big    Bear    of    Arkansas.      Edited  by  Wm.  T. 

Porter.     With  Illustrations  by  Darley.     F'ifty  cents. 
Major    Jones'    Chronicles  of  Pineville. 

With  Illustrations  by  Darley.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
Life  and    Adventures    of   Percival    Ma- 
berry.     By  J.  II.  Ingrahain.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
Frank     Forester's    Q,uoriidon    Hounds. 

By  H.  W.  Herbert.    With  Illustrations.     Price  50  cts. 
Pickings    from    the     "Picayune."     With 

Illustrations  by  Darley.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
Frank     Forester's     Shooting  Box.    With 

Illustrations  by  Darley.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
Peter  Ploddy.  By  author  of  '«  Charcoal  Sketches." 

With  Illustrations  by  Darley.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
Western  Scenes;  or,  Life  on  the  Prairie. 

Illustrated.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
Streaks  of  Squatter  Life.     By  the  author  of 

•'Major   Jones' Courtship."      Illustrated  by  Darley. 

Price  Fifty  cents. 

Simon    Suggs. — Adventures   of  Captain 

Simon  Siiggs.     Illustrated  by  Darley.    50  cents. 
Stray    Subjects     Arrested      and      Bound 

Over.     With  Illustrations  by  Darley.     Fifty  cents. 
Frank   Forester's    Deer    Stalkers.     With 

Illustrations.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
Adventures     of    Captain     Farrago.     By 

Hon    II.  H.  Brackenridge.     Illustrated.     Price  50  cts. 
Widow   Rugby's    Husband.      By  author  of 

"  Simon  Suggs. "     With  Illustrations.     Fifty  cents. 
Major  O'Regan's   Adventures.     By  Hon.  H. 

H.   Brackenridge.      With    Illustrations    by   Darley. 

Price  Fifty  cents. 
Theatrical    Journey- Work   and    Anec- 
dotal Recollections  of  Sol.  Smith,  Esq. 

Price  Fifty  cents. 
Polly     Peablossom's     "Wedding.       By  the 

author  of  "  Major  Jones'  Courtship."     Fifty  cents. 
Frank  Forester's  Warwick  Woodlands. 

With  beautiful  Illustrations.     Price  50  cents. 
New   Orleans    Sketch    Book.      By"Stahl." 

With  Illustrations  by  Darley.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
The    Love    Scrapes    of    Fudge    Fumble. 

By  author  of  "  Arkansaw  Doctor."     Price  Fifty  cts. 

American  Joe  Miller.     With  100  Illustrations. 

Price  Twenty-five  cents. 
Judge      Haliburton's     Yankee      Stories. 

Two  vols.,  paper  cover.    Price  $1.00  ;  or  cloth,  $1.50. 

Humors  of  Falconbrldge.     Two  vols.,  paper 

cover.    Price  One  Dollar;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth, $1.50. 


Copies  of  any  of  the  above  Works  will  be  sent  by  Mail,  Free  of  Postage,  on  receipt  of  the  Price. 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


GUSTAVE    AIMARD'S    "WORKS. 
The  Prairie  Flower.  One  volume,  octavo,  paper 

cover,  price  50  cents,  or  bouud  in  cloih  for  75  cents. 
The    Indian   Scout.     Cue  volume,  octavo,  paper 

cover,  price  fifty  ceuts,  or  bouud  iu  cloth  lor  75  cts. 
The  Trail  Hunler.     One  volume,  octavo,  paper 

Cover,  price  lifty  ceuts,  or  bouud  in  cloth  for  75  cts. 
The  Pirates  of  the  Prairies.     One  vol,  paper 

cover,  price  50  cents,  or  iu  cloth,  for  75  cents. 
The   Trapper's   Daughter.     One  volume,  oc- 
tavo, paper  cover,  price  fifty  cents. 
The    Tiger    Slayer.     One  volume,  octavo,  paper 

cover.     Trice  Fifty  cents. 
The  Gold  Seekers.    One  volume,  octavo,  paper 

cover.     Price  Fifty  ceuts. 

All  of  Aimard's  other  books  are  in  press  hy  us. 

GEORGE     SAND'S    WORKS. 

Consuelo.  By  George  Sand.  Translated  from  the 
French,  by  Fayette  Robinson.  Complete  and  ana- 
bridged.     One  volume.     Price  Fifty  ceuts. 

Countess  of  Rndolstadt.  The  Sequel  to  "  Con- 
suelo."  Translated  from  the  original  French.  Com- 
plete and  unabridged  edition.     Price  50  cents. 

First  and  True  Love.  By  author  of  "  Con.su- 
elo,"  "  Indiana,"  etc.     Illustrated.     Price  50  ceuts. 

The   Corsair.       A  Venetian  Tale.     Price  25  cents. 

Indiana.  By  author  of  "Consuelo,"  etc.  A  very 
bew'uchiug  and  interesting  work.  Two  vols.,  paper 
cover.  Price  $1.00  ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50 

LIEBIG'S    WORKS    ON    CHEMISTRY. 

Agricultural  Chemistry.     Price  2.3  cents. 

Animal  Chemistry.     Price    25  ceuts. 

Familiar   Letters   on    Chemistry. 

The  Potato  Disease. 

Chemistry  and   Physics  in  relation  to  Physi- 
ology and  Pathology. 
The  above  Five  works  of  Professor  Liobig  are  also 

published  complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume,  bound. 

Price  $2.00.     The  three  last  works  are  only  published 

iu  the  bound  volume. 

HUMOROUS  ILLUSTRATED  WORKS. 
High  Life  in  New  York.     By  Jonathan  Slick. 

Beautifully  Illustrated.    Two  volumes,   paper  cover. 

Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  iu  one  vol  ,  cloth,  $1.50. 

Sam  Slick,  the  Clockmaker.     By  Judge  Ha- 

liburton.  Illustrated.  One  volume,  cloth,  $1.50; 
or  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  for  $1.00. 

Major    .Tones'    Courtship     and    Travels. 

Beautifully  illustrated.    One  vol.,  cloth.    Price  $1.50. 

Major    .Tones'  Scenes  in  Georgia.      Full   of 

beautiful  illustrations.     One  vol.,  cloth.     Price  $1.50. 

Yankee  Stories.  By  Judge  Haliburton.  Two 
vols.,  paper  cover.     Price  $1.00  ;  or  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Simon  Suggs'  Ad  ventures  and  T  ravels. 
Illustrated.     One  volume,  cloth.     Price  $1.50. 

Humors  of  Falconbridge.  Two  vols.,  paper 
cover.    Price  One  Dollar  ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

Piney  Woods  Tavern;  or,  Sam  Slick  in 
Texas.  Cloth,  $1.50  ;  or  2  vols.,  paper  cover,  $1.00. 

The  Swamp  Doctor's  Adventures  in  the 
Snuth-Wcst.  Containing  the  whole  of  the  Louis- 
iana Swamp  Doctor;  Streaks  of  Squatter  Life ;  and 
Far-Western  Scenes.  With  14  Illustrations  from  de- 
signs by  Darley.     Cloth.      Price   $1  50. 

Major  Thorpe's  Scenes  in  Arkansaw: 
containing  the  whole  of  the  "Quarter  Race  in  Ken- 
tucky," and"  Bob  Herri m,'.  the  Arkansas  Bear  Hun- 
ter," to  which  isadde.lthe  "Drama  in  Pokaiville." 
With  Sixteen  illustrations  from  Designs  by  Darley. 
Complete  iu  one  volume,  cloth.    Price  $].5o". 

Tile  Big  Bear's  Adventures  and  Tra- 
vels :  containing  the  whole  of  the  Adventures  and 
Travels  of  the  "Big  Bear  of  Arkansaw, "  and  "  Strav 
Subjects"  With  Eighteen  Illustrations  from  Oriiri- 
ual  Designs  by  Darley.   One  vol..  bound.    Price  $1.50. 

Frank  Forester's  Sporting  Scenes  and 
Characters.    Illustrated.   Two" vols.,  cloth,  $3.00. 


CAPTAIN    MARRYATT'S    WORKS. 

Price  Twenty-Five  Cents  each. 


Jacob  Faithful. 
Phantom  Ship. 
King's  Own. 
Snarlejoiv. 
Midshipman  Easy. 
The  Naval  Officer. 


Pacha      of      many 

Tales. 
Pirate  and   Three 

Cutters. 
Pereival        Keene. 

Price  50  cents. 


Japliet  in  Search  of  Poor  Jack.     50cents. 

a  Father.  Sea  King.      50  cents. 

Ratllin,  the  Reefer.  Peter  Simple.     50  c. 

Newton   Forster.  Valerie.     50  cents. 

GEORGE     LIPPARD'S     WORKS. 
Legends    of   the   American   Revolution  ; 

or,    Washington  and   his  Generals.     Two   volumes, 

paper  cover.     Price  Oue  Dollar. 
T.'ic  tiuakcr  City;  or,  The  Monks  of  Monk  Hall. 

Two  volumes,  paper  cover.     Price  One  Dollar. 
Paul    Aidenheim;    the    Monk    of  Wissahikon. 

Two  volumes,  paper  cover.     Price  Due  Dollar. 
Blanche    of   Brandy  wine.     A  Revolutionary 

Romance.     Two  volumes,,  paper  cover.     Price  $1.00. 
The  Lady  of  Alharone  ;  or.  The  Poison  Goblet. 

One  volume,  paper  cover.     Price  75  cents. 
Tile   Naxarene.     One  volume.     Price  50  cents. 
Legends   of  Mexico.     One  vol.     Price  25  cents. 

DOW'S     PATENT    SERMONS. 

.63=-  Each  volume,  or  series,  is  complete  in  itself,  and 
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Dow's  Short  Patent  Sermons.  First  Se- 
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10        T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


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T.  B.  PETERSON  &   BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.        11 


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12       T.  B.  PETERSON    &  BROTHERS1    LIST   OF  PUBLICATIONS 


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Victims  of  Amusements.  By  Martha  Clark. 
Suitable  for  Sunday  Schools.     One  vol.,  cloth.     3Scts. 


SIR  E.  L.  BILVVEU'S  NOVELS. 
Falkland.  A  Novel.  One  vol.,  octavo.  2J  cuts. 
The  Roue  ;  or,  The  Hazards  of  Women.  25  cents. 
The  Oxonians.  A  Sequel  to  M  The  Roue."  25ct«. 
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LANGUAGES  WITHOUT  A  MASTER. 
Price  Twenty-Five    Vents  each. 

French    -without     a    Master.     In  Six   Easy 

Lessons. 

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Lessons. 

German    without    a     Master.     In  Six  Easy 

Lessons. 

Italian  -without  a  Master.  In  Five  Easy 
Lessons. 

Latin  without  a  Master.  In  Six  Easy  Lessons. 
The  whole  are  also  bouud  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  lor  $1.30. 

SMOLLETT'S  GREAT  WORKS. 

Peregrine  Pickle;  and  His  Adventures.  Two 
volumes,  octavo.     Price  One  Dollar. 

Humphrey  Clinker.     Price  Fifty  cents. 

Roderick  Random.     Price  Fifty  cents. 

Ferdinand  Count  Fathom.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

Sir  Launcelot  Greaves.     Price  25  cents. 
HENRY    FIELDING'S  "WORKS. 

Tom  Jones.     Two  volumes.     Price  One  Dollar. 

Amelia.     One  volume.     Price  Fifty  cents. 

Joseph  Andrews.     Price  Fifty  cents. 

Jonathan  Wild.     Price  25  cents. 

CHRISTY    &    WOOD'S    SONG    BOOKS. 
No  music  is  so  generally  esteemed,  or  songs  so  fre- 
quently sung  and  listened  to  with  so  much   delight,  as 

is  the  music  and  the  songs  of  the  Ethiopian  Minstrels. 

They  have  commenced  a  new  epoch  in  Music,  and  the 

best  works  relating  to  them  are  those  mentioned  below. 

Each  Book  contains  near  Seventy  Songs. 

Christy  &  Wood's  New  Song  Book.  Illus- 
trated.    Price  12J2  cents. 

The  Melodeon  Song  Book.    Price  12%  cents. 

The  Plantation  Melodies.    Price  12%  cents. 

The  Ethiopian  Song  Book.    Price  12%  cents. 

The  Serenaders'  Song  Book.     Price  12%  cts. 

Budsworth's  Songs.    Price  12%  cents. 

Christy  and  WThite's  Complete  Ethio- 
pian Melodies,  containing  291  songs,  and  beau- 
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USEFUL  BOOKS    FOR    EVERYBODY. 

Lardner's  One  Thousand  and  Ten 
Things  "Worth  Knowing;  to  which  is 
added  Employment  to  All;  or  a  Hundred  Ways  to 
make  and  keep  Money.     Price  25  cents. 

Gentlemen's  Science  of  Etiquette;  and 
Guide  to  Society.  By  Count  D'Orsay.  With  his  Por- 
trait.   Price  25  cents. 

Ladies'  Science  of  Etiquette  ;  and  complete 
Hand  Book  of  the  Toilet.  By  Countess  De  Calabrella. 
Price  25  cents. 

The  Complete  Kitchen  and  Fruit  Gar- 
dener. A  work  that  all  that  have  a  garden  should 
own.     Price  25  cents. 

The  Complete  Florist;  or,  Flower  Gar- 
dener. The  best  work  on  the  subject  ever  pub- 
lished.    Price  25  cents. 

Knowlson's  Complete  Farrier,  or  Horse 
Doctor.  All  that  own  a  horse  should  possess  this 
book.     Price  25  cents. 

Knowlson's  Complete  Cattle,  or  Cow 
Doctor.  Whoever  owns  a  cow  should  have  this 
book.     Price  25  cents. 

Pocket  Library  of  Useful  Knowledge. 
A  work  that  all  should  own.     Price  50  cents. 

Arthur's  Receipts  for  Putting  up  Fruits 
and  Vegetables  in  Summer  to  Keep. 
Price  12%  cents. 


Copies  of  any  of  the  above  Works  will  be  sent  by  Mail,  Free  of  Postage,  on  receipt  of  the  Price. 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.        13 


WORKS   BY    BEST    AUTHORS. 

■Wild  Southern  Scenes.  By  author  of  "Wild 
Western  Scenes. "  Two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price 
One  Dollar;  or  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Physical  History  of  the  Creation  of 
the  Earth  and  its  Inhabitants.  A  Com- 
panion to  Lyell's  Antiquity  of  Man.  By  Eli  Bowen, 
Esq  ,  Professor  of  Geology.  Complete  in  one  large 
duodecimo  volume      Price  $1.50. 

The  Quaker  Soldier  ;  or,  The  British  in 
Philadelphia.  By  Col.  J.  Kichter  Jones.  Two 
vols.,  paper  cover.     Price  $1.00  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.50. 

Currcr  Lyle  ;  or,  The  Autobiography  of 
an  Actress.  By  Lonise  Reeder.  Two  volumes, 
paper  cover.     Price  $1.00  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Roman  Traitor.  By  H.  W.  Herbert.  Two 
volumes,  paper.     Price  $1.00  ;  or  in  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Life  and  Beauties  of  Fanny  Pern.  Two 
volumes,  paper,  price  $1.00  ;  or  in  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Monteith's  French,  German,  Spanish, 
Latin  and  Italian  Languages  without 
a  Master.     One  volume,  cloth,  price  $1.50. 

Secession,  Coercion  and  Civil  War.  A  Pro- 
phecy of  theSoutherD  Rebellion.  Oue  vol.,  cloth, $1,50. 

Lola  Montez'  Lectures  and  Life.  Two  vols., 
paper  cover.    Price  $1.00;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

Liebig's  Complete  Works  on  Chemistry. 
Oue  volume,  cloth.     Price  $2.00. 

The  Works  of  Captain  Marryatt.  Com- 
plete iu  one  royal  octavo  volume,  bound.    Price  $3.00. 

The  Laws  and  Practice  of  the  Game  of 
Euchre.  By  a  Professor.  This  is  the  only  recog- 
nized book  on  the  subject  published  iu  the  world. 
Complete  iu  one  vol.,  cloth,  price  75  ceuts. 

Dickers'  Short  Stories.  By  Charles  Dickens. 
Oue  volume.  12rno.     Price  $1.25. 

Message  from  the  Sea.  By  Charles  Dickens. 
One  volume,  12mo.     Price  $1.25. 

Lives  of  .Tack  Sheppard  and  Guy 
Fawkes.     Illustrated.     Oue  volume,  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Afternoon  of  Unmarried  Life.  A 
Charming  Novel.     One  vol.,  cloth.     Price  $1.25. 

Gen.  Scott's  $5.00  Portrait.  Price  One  Dollar. 
NEW   YORK  MERCURY   STORIES. 

Each  book  contaius  Illustrative  Engravings  by  Darley. 
Price  25  Cents  each. 

Saul  Sabberday,  Riff,  and  Spray, 

Sea  Waif,  Morgan, 

W'»ite  Wizard,  SwortlniitkerSantee, 

Man-o'-War-Man's     Shell-Hunter, 
Grudge,  Golden  Feather, 

Stella  Oelorme,  Scotto,  the   Stout, 

Lmma  Prescolt,  Death  Mystery, 

Our  Mess,  The  Owlet, 

Thayendanega,  Catholina. 

Elfrida,  Conspirators. 

Pathaway,  Hilliare   Henderson, 

English  Tom,  Whitclaw, 

Melpomene  Serf,  Silver  Star — 50. 

Nightshade,  Sybil   Campbell — 50. 

EXCELLENT     SHILLING    BOOKS. 

Price  12"  £  cent?  each,  or   Ten  for  $1.00. 

Throne   of    Iniquity.      By  Rev.  Albert  Barnes. 

Woman.     By  Lucretia  Mott,  the  Quaker  Preacher. 

Euchre. — Game  of  Euchre  and  its  Laws. 

Or.   Berg's    Answer    to  Bishop  Hughes. 

Or.    Berg's  Lecture  on  the  Jesuits. 

Life  of  the  Rev.  John  N.  Maffit. 

Odd-Fellowship  Exposed.     Illustrated. 

Exposition  of  the  Sons  of  Malta. 

Mormonism    Exposed.     Full  of  Engravings. 

Train  on  the  Downfall  of  England, 
and  Archbishop  Hughes  on  the  War  in  America. 

Train  on   Slavery  and   Emancipation. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher  on  War  and 
Emancipation. 

Rev.  Win.  T.  Brantley's  Union  Sermon. 

The  Sleeping  Sentinel.     Price  Ten  cents. 


WORKS     IN     PRESS    BY    THE    BEST 

AUTHORS. 
Ernest  Lin-wood.     By  Mrs  Caroline  Lee  Hentz. 

Complete  i.-i  two  volumes,  paper  cover.     Price  Oue 

Dollar  ;  or  in  oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Mabel;    or,    Darkness  and   Dawn.      By  Charles  J. 

Peterson.     Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover, 

Price  $1.00  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.50. 
Life  and  Adventures  of  Fudge  Fumble. 

Price  Filty  cents. 
Life  and  Adventures  of  Tom  Bowling. 

A  Sea  Tale.     One  volume.     Price  50  ceuts. 
The   Tiger  Slayer.     By  Gustave  Aimard.     One 

volume,  octavo,  paper  cover.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
The  Gold  Seekers.     By  Gustave  Aimard.     One 

volume,  octavo,  paper  cover.     Price  Fifty  cents. 
All  of  Aimard  s   other  books  are  in  press  by  us. 
The  Chei  alier.    By  Alexander  Dumas.    A  sequel 

to  and  continuation  of  "  Andree  De  Taveruay.     One 

volume,  octavo.     Price  75  cents. 
The  American  Pocket-Library  of  Useful 

Knowledge.      A   work   that   everybody  should 

own.     Price  Fifty  Cents. 
Whitefriars ;  or,  the  Days  of  Charles  the  Second. 

Illustrated  by  Chapin.     Price  50  ceuts. 
Madame   Rachel's   Travels  in   the   New 

World.   Translated  from  the  French  of  Leon  Brau- 

vallet.     Two  vols.,  paper,  $1.00  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.2-5. 
The  K.  N.  Pepper  Papers;  and  other  stories 

put  up  for  general  use.     By  Jacques  Maurice.     Com- 
plete iu   two  vols.,  paper.     Price  $1.00;  or  in  one 

vol.,  cloth,  $1.25. 
The   Jesuit's   Daughter.     By  Ned   Buntliue. 

One  volume,  octavo.     Price  50  cents. 
The  Fallen  Angel.     By  Alexander  Dumas.     A 

Story  of  Life  in  Paris.     Oue  volume.     Price  50  cents. 
Life  and  Adventures  of  Ned  Musgravc; 

or,  the   .Most  Unfortunate  Man  in  the   World.     By 

Theodore  Hook.     Price  50  cents. 
FOLLOWING      ARE     TWENTY-FIVE 

CENT   BOOKS. 
Moreton  Hall;  or,  the  Spirit  of  a  Haunted  House. 
Jenny   Ambrose;  or,  Life  in  the  Eastern  States. 
Uncle  Tom  in  England. 
Life  and  Adventures  of  Rody  the  Rover. 
The   Admiral's  Daughter.     By  Mrs.  Marsh. 
The  Deformed.     By  Mrs.  Marsh. 
Life   of  Galloping   Dick,  the  Highwayman. 
Sixtcen-Stringed  Jack  and  his  Pals;  or 

the  Highwayman's  Captive. 
Sixteen-Stringed  Jack's  Fight  for  Life. 
The  Highwayman's  Avenger;  or,  the  Es- 
cape of  Sixteen-Stringed  Jack. 
Life   of  Frank   Smith,  the  Ghost  Murderer 
Life  and   Adventures   of  Dick    Patch. 
Life  of  Jack  Rellingham,  the  Murderer. 
Life  of  Joe   Blackburn,  the  Noted  Forger. 
Life  of  Bill  Corder,  executed  for  Murder. 
Life  of  Bill  Burk,  the  Noted  Murderer. 
The  Five  Pirates. 

Life  of  Jack  Halloway,  the  Wife  Murderer. 
Life  and  Adventures  of  Jack  Bishop. 
Life  of  James  Cook,  the  Murderer. 
Life   of  Jim  Greenacre,  the  Murderer. 
Tom  and  Jim  Berryman,  the  Noted  Burglars. 
The  Old  Astrologer.     By  T.  S.  Arthur. 
A  House  to  Let.     By  Charles  Dickens. 
Hard   Times.     By  Charles  Dickens. 
Seven  Poor  Trnvelers.     By  Dickens. 
Uncommercial   Traveler.     By  Chas.  Dickens. 
Captain  Jorgan.     By  Charles  Dickens. 
Tales  and   Stories.     By  Charles  Dickens. 
Ripton  Rumsey.     By  Charles  Dickens. 
The  Child's  Story.    By  Charles  Dickens. 


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SHOULDER-STRAPS! 

THE  BOOK  FOR 

SOLDIERS!  SUMMER  TRAVELERS!  AND  WATERING-PLACE  HABITUES! 

Stay-at-Home  Guards,  "Wives  and  Widows, 

Government  Officials,  Fast  Young  Ladies, 

Army  Contractors,  Slow  Young  Ladies, 

Aldermen,  Doctors,  Married  Men  and  Bachelors, 

Judges  and  Lawyers,  Young  Ladies  about  to  be  Married, 

AND  THOSE  WHO  HAVE  NO   MATRIMONIAL  PROSPECTS  WHATEVER. 

T.    B.    PETERSON    &    BROTHERS, 
No.  306  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia, 

HAVE  JUST  PUBLISHED 

SHOULDER-STRAPS! 

A  NOVEL  OP 

New  York  and  the  Army  in  1862. 
BY  HENRY  MORFORD. 

EDITOR  OF  THE  NEW  YORK  ATLAS,  AND  AUTHOR  OF  THE  SUCCESSFUL  RAILROAD 
BOOK,  "  SPREES  AND  SPLASHES." 


Complete  in  two  large  volumes  of  over  Five  Hundred  pages,  done  up  in  paper  cover. 
Price  One  Dollar ;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1  50. 

The  leading  features  of  this  Book,  which  will  make  it  part  of  the  History  of  the  time 
will  be  found  in  its 

Exposures  of  the  Stay-at-Home  Officers, 

Pictures  of  Life  in  the  Recruiting  Camps, 

New  York  Scenes  during  War  Time, 

Secessioc  Mysteries  of  New  York  City, 
Life-like  Description  of  the  Battle  of  Malvern  Hill, 
The  Last  Charge  at  Antietam, 

Secrets  of  the  Obi  Poisoning, 

Glances  at  Fortune-Telling  and  Superstition 
Dashes  at  McClellan,  Fitz  John  Porter,  Etc., 

Strange  Scenes  and  Vivid  Descriptions  at  Niagara, 

"Joe  Harris,  the  Wild  Madonna,"  and  other  Adventures,  &c. 

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they  want  of  each  edition  of  the  Book,  which  will  prove  to  be  immensely  popular.   Published 

and  for  Sale  at  the  Cheap  Publishing  and  Bookselliug  Establishment  of 

T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  Philadelphia, 

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CHEAPEST  BOOK  HOUSE  IN  THE  WORLD. 

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T.  B.  PETERSON  & 

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Any  person  wanting  any  books  at  all,  in  any  quantity,  from  a  single 
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and  will  supply  them  and  sell  them  cheaper  than  any  other  house  in  the 
world.  We  publish  a  large  variety  of  Military  Novels,  with  Illustrated 
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